A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 7

Once Symon had announced the news that Robert was dead, there was a concerted dash to the hythes. Alan was first, running in a lithe, sprightly manner that did not seem appropriate in a high-ranking cleric. Julian and Symon bounded after him with Henry hurrying at their side, although the older monk soon lagged behind. Michael huffed along with him, sweating and panting in the searing heat of the midday sun. Bartholomew was easily able to keep up with Alan, but was surprised when someone caught up with them and started to pass. It was de Lisle.

‘I heard what happened,’ the Bishop gasped to the Prior, as they sprinted past the castle ruins and Alan grappled with the gate that led through the wall and out on to Broad Lane. ‘Your librarian told me.’

‘He had no right,’ muttered Alan, casting a venomous glance at Symon, who was bending over to try to catch his breath. ‘It is priory business, and not for outsiders to meddle in.’

‘I will not meddle,’ said de Lisle breathlessly. ‘I came to offer support and spiritual guidance, should you need it.’

‘I will not,’ said Alan firmly. ‘And it is better that you are not seen with us. I do not want it said that my priory consorts with killers.’

‘I am not a killer,’ said de Lisle angrily, following him through the gate. ‘I am your Bishop. And anyway, the man you appointed to investigate Glovere’s murder has declared me innocent. You heard him yourself.’

‘Northburgh!’ spat Alan in disgust. ‘I had not realised he had grown so eccentric, or I would never have asked him to come.’

‘Then what about the venerable Canon of Lincoln?’ demanded de Lisle archly. ‘He has also failed to find any evidence of my guilt – and he represents my most bitter enemy.’

‘Stretton is worse than Northburgh,’ snapped Alan. ‘The man could not even name the four gospels last night, yet he hopes to be a prelate one day.’ He pushed past de Lisle and dashed out into Broad Lane. Bartholomew and the Bishop were at his heels, while Michael, Henry and the others followed more sedately.

Alan led the way down one of the narrow alleys that led to the river. On the Quay, a group of people had already gathered to view the unusual spectacle of a dead monk being dragged from the water. Leycestre and his nephews were there, manoeuvring a small boat towards the head and shoulders that broke the water near the opposite shore. Robert’s dark robes floated out around him, so that his sodden hair reminded Bartholomew of the centre of a great, black flower. Leycestre tried to pull Robert into the boat, but it threatened to capsize, so he took a firm hold of the monk’s cowl and towed him back to the Quay, where willing hands reached out to help. The landlord of the Lamb, who owned two of them, remarked critically that Mackerell was far better at removing corpses from the water.

Alan asked Bartholomew to inspect the body there and then, but the physician had done little more than identify one muddy ear, a slightly grazed cheek and a puncture mark in the neck before he sensed that it would not be right to conduct a thorough examination with half the town looking on. He glanced up at Michael, but the monk was busily scanning the crowd, obviously studying them for reactions that might reveal one of them as the guilty party. He had plenty of choice, for virtually all their suspects were there, with the notable exception of William.

First, there was Leycestre with his nephews, pleased to be the centre of attention and claiming in a loud, important voice that he had been the one to have spotted the body. He was unflustered when Michael demanded to know what he had been doing near the river when he should have been in the fields, and claimed that he had supplemented his midday meal with a jug of ale in the Mermaid. Agnes Fitzpayne was there, too, leaning her mighty forearms on a peat spade and looking very much as though killing a man would be well within her capabilities.

The gypsies were hovering near the back of the crowd, and watching with intense interest. The slack-jawed Rosel was being held back by his brothers, or it seemed he would have elbowed his way to the front. Eulalia was with them, although the expression on her face was more troubled than curious. Bartholomew wondered why. Guido’s face was unreadable, half shadowed by his curious gold cap.

Lady Blanche stood to one side. Her retainers clustered around her, as though they were forming a wall to protect her from the common folk who jostled and prodded at each other as they vied for the best vantage points. Tysilia was with her, and Bartholomew heard Blanche informing her that the body was Robert’s, not William’s. Tysilia began to hum happily, and Bartholomew wondered if she had already forgotten the fear she had expressed for William, or whether she imagined that the death of one monk rendered all the others safe. The strange logic in her mind was almost impossible for Bartholomew to penetrate, and he decided not to try.

And then there were the monks: Symon, Henry, Julian, Bukton, Welles and a number of others, gathered at their Prior’s back like black carrion crows. De Lisle stood between them and the landlord of the Lamb.

‘Michael,’ said Tysilia softly, edging closer to the monk and gazing at him with doe-eyed adoration. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael sharply, moving away from her. ‘I am busy.’

‘Later, then,’ said Tysilia. ‘I shall be waiting.’

‘That body belongs to the almoner,’ declared Agnes Fitzpayne with satisfaction, when the monk’s robes had been pulled away to reveal his face. ‘He was a sly devil.’

‘He pocketed the alms that were supposed to go to the poor,’ agreed Leycestre, looking around at his fellow citizens in sanctimonious indignation. There was a growl of agreement from the onlookers and Alan looked decidedly nervous.

‘That is untrue,’ he said, although his expression indicated the opposite. ‘Robert always executed his duties with the utmost care and honesty.’

‘No, he did not,’ announced Tysilia, beaming at the crowd as though she were about to impart some good news. ‘William told me that Robert stole from the poor all the time!’

‘Tysilia, please,’ said de Lisle with uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘It is not kind to speak ill of the dead. Keep your thoughts and accusations to yourself, my dear.’

‘I shall tell you later, then,’ she said happily, evidently not noticing that she had been chastised. ‘You always listen to what I have to say with great interest.’

‘Yes,’ said de Lisle, patting her arm, then moving away when he realised that proximity to his “niece” also brought him far too close to his arch-enemy Lady Blanche de Wake. He was not quick enough, however, and Bartholomew saw that one of Blanche’s powerful hands had latched on to his arm. She gave a vigorous tug that yanked him out of Tysilia’s hearing.

‘Your niece is driving me to distraction,’ she hissed furiously. ‘Remove her from my presence before I throttle her.’

De Lisle gazed at her coldly with his heavily lidded eyes. ‘That would be a terrible sin, madam. I shall send Ralph to collect her today, if that is how you feel. However, I must remind you that it was not my idea that you took her from me. I wanted to keep her, if you recall.’

‘I made a mistake,’ admitted Blanche reluctantly. ‘I thought that having her would seal our alliance and prevent further aggravation, but it has made no difference. That woman is a vile harlot who has no place in the house of any respectable lady.’

‘Madam!’ exclaimed de Lisle, sounding shocked. ‘Watch what you say. There is something wrong with her mind, and she requires patience and understanding, not censure.’

‘There certainly is something wrong with her mind,’ growled Blanche. ‘Her behaviour is like that of an animal on heat.’

‘Yes,’ agreed de Lisle, casting a glance at Tysilia that was full of compassion. Bartholomew was startled to see the depth of emotion there, astonished that such love from the arrogant Bishop should be reserved for a person like Tysilia. ‘But she cannot help it. I have sent her to the best physicians in the country, and have sought the opinions of medical men from as far away as Avignon and Rome, but no one has been able to help her.’

‘You have?’ asked Blanche doubtfully.

De Lisle nodded. ‘I have been obliged to place her in convents for most of her life, although I would sooner have her with me. Unfortunately, her illness makes that impossible. When you offered to become her guardian, I had hopes that she would come to love you as a daughter might, and that such affection would go some way towards effecting a cure. I am deeply sorry that it did not.’

‘Well?’ demanded Agnes, breaking into the muttered conversation between Blanche and de Lisle. ‘Did someone do away with the almoner or is his death natural?’

Bartholomew had been so engrossed by the Bishop’s open admission of affection for Tysilia, that he had all but forgotten the soggy form of Robert that lay at his feet. He glanced at Michael, doubtful how he should reply. He did not want to tell an outright lie – there would be no point when he was so bad at telling untruths, especially in front of such a large gathering of people – but he was not sure it would be wise to announce that a fourth victim had been claimed. Fortunately for Bartholomew, de Lisle came to his rescue.

The Bishop looked imperiously down his long nose at the crowd, and then addressed them as though he was giving one of his famous sermons. ‘You have all seen this sad sight now. Poor Almoner Robert has drowned, and there is nothing more to keep you from your business. Go back to your work, and let the monks bury their brother in peace.’

‘There will not be much peace for the likes of Robert,’ stated Agnes, folding her arms and making no move to obey the Bishop. ‘He will be on his way directly to Hell.’

‘Then we must pray for his soul,’ said de Lisle firmly.

‘Will we be praying for the soul of a murdered man?’ asked Leycestre of Bartholomew with keen interest. Once again, the physician was conscious that the crowd was listening intently for any reply he might make.

‘Yes,’ replied Michael bluntly, deciding upon a policy of honesty after a brief exchange of glances with Bartholomew told him what he wanted to know. ‘It seems that Robert has suffered a similar fate to Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘And Robert is a monk!’ breathed Barbour, the landlord of the Lamb. ‘It is not just us any more; it is them, too.’

‘What is being done to catch this killer?’ asked Agnes conversationally to Alan, not in the least awed by his rank.

‘A lot, now that a monk is a victim,’ said Leycestre bitterly. He stood on tiptoe and glanced at Eulalia and her brothers. ‘And there are these burglaries, too. The monastery is safe, inside its walls, but there was another attack on a town house last night.’

‘Another burglary?’ asked Michael. ‘Who was it this time?’

‘Me,’ said Barbour ruefully. ‘Wednesday nights are always good for the taverns – especially ones that sell good ale, like the Lamb – because it is the day men are paid. Whoever stole from me must have known that.’

There was a horrified murmur and many heads were shaken in disgust. Leycestre’s eyes remained fixed on the gypsies and, slowly, others turned to look at them too.

‘However,’ Barbour went on, ‘I am not the kind of man to leave my takings lying around for all to see. I had them well hidden.’ He leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice, so that only half the surrounding spectators could hear. ‘I keep the money under a floorboard in the attic.’

‘A good place to secure it from passing thieves,’ said Leycestre, his gaze still fixed on the hapless gypsies. Eulalia was looking decidedly uncomfortable, although whether it was because she and her brothers knew more about the theft than they should have done, or because it was not pleasant to be the object of the hostile scrutiny of so many people, Bartholomew could not say. Several men began to mutter among themselves.

‘Not this again,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. He was tiring of having to defend the gypsies. ‘You have no evidence to identify the culprits for certain, Leycestre, or you would have acted already. Do not accuse the travellers simply because they are strangers and have a style of life that is different from your own.’

‘There is evidence,’ hissed Leycestre, still glaring in the gypsies’ direction. Eulalia was more uneasy than ever, although Guido stared back defiantly. The dim-witted Rosel saw Leycestre gazing at him, and interpreted it as a sign of friendship. He gave an empty grin, full of misshapen teeth, and waved.

‘Bartholomew is right,’ said de Lisle firmly. ‘There will be no hounding of innocent people in my See. There has been more than enough of that already.’ Here he gave Blanche a meaningful look. ‘Meanwhile, I shall go to the cathedral to pray for the soul of the unfortunate Robert, and any of you who can spare a few moments are welcome to join me.’

‘I will not join you!’ spat Blanche, unable to keep her loathing for the Bishop under control any longer. ‘You probably put Robert in his coffin in the first place! Murderer!’

There was an expectant hush as the spectators anticipated with relish what promised to be a fascinating spectacle of Bishop and noblewoman hurling insults at each other in the street. Blanche’s retainers gathered more closely around her, while de Lisle’s steward Ralph came to stand behind his master with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Bartholomew saw Michael take up a position on the prelate’s other side.

De Lisle remained unmoved. ‘I know you believe me capable of all manner of crimes, madam,’ he said in firm, measured tones, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘You are mistaken, and I swear before God that I have killed no one. But we will not debate this issue here, while a man’s soul is crying out for our masses. You may visit me at my home later, should you wish, and there I will listen to anything you have to say.’

He bowed elegantly, and moved away. Seeing the excitement was over, the crowd began to disperse, although Bartholomew noticed that the Bishop’s calm, sober manner and his reluctance to become embroiled in a public fight had won the admiration of many. As de Lisle walked up the hill towards the cathedral, a large proportion of the townsfolk followed him, evidently willing to take him up on his invitation. Blanche saw she had been bested, and surged away in the opposite direction, a much smaller train of people in her wake.

‘That is one reason why I am in de Lisle’s service, Matt,’ said Michael, staring after him. ‘He is a remarkable man.’

‘He is a complicated man,’ Bartholomew corrected. ‘He is unpredictable.’

‘He can be arrogant, overbearing and demanding,’ agreed Michael. ‘But other times, he demonstrates a compassion that I have rarely seen in a cleric. If we were to listen to his mass for Robert, you would not detect a single insincere word in it – which is more than could be said if any of the monks were to officiate.’

‘Why does he care about Robert so?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you think Blanche is right, and he did murder the man?’

‘I do not believe so. But we should go to the cathedral, too, so that you can inspect Robert as soon as the mass is done.’

‘Are you available now, Brother?’ came Tysilia’s voice from behind them. She gave a bright beam and sidled up to Michael, fluttering her eyelashes alluringly.

‘Lord help us!’ breathed Michael. ‘If it is not one thing, it is another.’ He moved away from her; she followed, aiming to stand as close as possible. He took another step, and they began a curious circular dance that gathered momentum as each was determined to achieve his objective.

‘Not here, Tysilia,’ ordered Michael, becoming hot with the sudden vigorous exercise. ‘It is not seemly with one of my brethren lying dead.’

‘Are you saying that it would be seemly if he were not?’ asked Bartholomew, amused.

‘If not here, then where?’ demanded Tysilia, interpreting his words as a veiled invitation. ‘I can meet you at any place, at any time.’

‘Not at mealtimes,’ suggested Bartholomew, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘He has far more important business to attend then.’

Michael shot him an agitated glance, then quickly turned his attention back to Tysilia: his loss of concentration had enabled her to extend one lightning-fast hand towards his person. He yelped and looked more outraged than Bartholomew had ever seen him. When the monk’s normally pale face turned red, the physician began to laugh.

‘Tysilia!’ The exclamation came from Ralph, the Bishop’s steward. Like Michael, he was horrified by her behaviour in such a public place. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

Tysilia regarded him sulkily. ‘I am having a privy conversion with Michael. Go away.’

‘She means a private conversation,’ said Bartholomew, when the steward looked bemused.

‘Well, he does not look as though he wants to finish it, so make your farewells and come away. The Bishop has decided that you will be safer with him than with Blanche.’ Ralph turned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘That comment about throttling has deeply worried him, and he wants Tysilia in his own quarters.’

‘Good idea,’ said Michael flatly. ‘I imagine Blanche is at the end of her tether as caretaker. We would not want an accident, would we?’

‘Blanche does not wear a tether,’ supplied Tysilia helpfully. ‘Her lap-dog does, though.’

‘The Bishop would do well to invest in one, too,’ said Ralph to Michael, casting a meaningful glance at Tysilia. ‘And I do not mean a lap-dog.’

‘You can inform the Bishop that any future meetings between him and me will be in the priory,’ said Michael, moving away quickly as Tysilia advanced. ‘I am not coming to his house.’

‘But I will be at his house,’ said Tysilia, surprised. ‘If you do not come there, you will not see me.’

‘No,’ said Michael grimly.

‘Well, I shall just have to come with Uncle to the priory, then,’ said Tysilia, undeterred. ‘But he said he was going to that big church to pray, so we have some time to ourselves before he returns. Come to his lodgings with me, and we will–’

‘Go with Ralph,’ ordered Michael brusquely, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end. ‘And behave yourself.’

‘Come with me,’ she invited coyly. ‘And then you can make sure that I do.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Michael, twisting away quickly as she lunged at him. Ralph seized her arm and hustled her up the hill, although she struggled and fought every inch of the way. It was as well Ralph was a strong man, because she was a tall, vigorous woman and would have escaped from anyone weaker.

‘I do not know why you are not making the most of this,’ said Bartholomew, laughing as he saw the alarmed expression on the monk’s face. ‘It cannot be every day that a pretty woman favours you with her undivided attention.’

‘I am a monk,’ said Michael, as if he thought that explained it all. It did not. The vow of celibacy was not one to which he often gave much regard, and he used it only when it suited him.

‘What is the real reason for this aversion?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I have never known you run from this sort of situation before.’

‘De Lisle would not be amused if he thought I had tampered with one of the few people he feels any affection for,’ said Michael. ‘He is very protective of her, as you probably gathered from the conversation between him and Blanche.’

‘It is not Tysilia who needs the protection,’ said Bartholomew, laughing again. ‘It is you, and the hundreds just like you who have passed through her pawing hands.’

‘That is not how de Lisle would see it. And I will not risk his displeasure for a quick romp under the bedclothes with a woman like Tysilia. It would not be worth it.’

‘I just hope you know what you are missing, Brother. It may never happen again.’

‘It will,’ said Michael, confident that he was every woman’s dream. ‘Only it will be with a lady of my choice, who does not have an uncle with an unproven charge of murder to his name.’

They walked slowly, to allow the monks time to carry the body up the hill and deposit it in the Lady Chapel, where it would be washed, dressed in a clean habit and prayed for until it took its final journey to the monks’ cemetery. Bartholomew was certain that Robert would not be obliged to wait above ground like Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. No sooner had the thought gone through his mind than he spotted Father John. He decided to ask whether the parish of St Mary’s was still blessed with two festering corpses.

The priest was walking with Leycestre, while Leycestre’s nephews – Clymme and Buk – and Agnes walked some distance behind, as though intent on preventing anyone else from hearing what the priest and the disinherited farmer had to say to each other. Not surprisingly, given that their obsession was not with murdered monks, Leycestre and his cronies were among the few who had not followed de Lisle to the cathedral.

‘Father John!’ called Bartholomew, increasing his stride so that he would catch up with the priest. He was startled to find his arm grabbed, very firmly, by Clymme. He gazed at Leycestre’s nephew, too astonished that he had been manhandled to do anything about it.

‘I want to speak to the priest,’ he said, trying to free himself. The grip was a strong one, and he saw that the other nephew was ready to add his own brawn to the struggle if Clymme proved unequal to the task.

‘Let him go,’ snapped Agnes sharply.

‘But you said–’ began Clymme.

‘Release him!’ repeated Agnes, this time more forcefully. ‘He wants to speak to Father John.’

Bartholomew disengaged his arm from the bemused Clymme, and saw that his supposition had been right: the nephews and Agnes were indeed a sort of rearguard, whose duty was to prevent the discussion taking place between labourer and priest from being overheard. John, who had turned as soon as Bartholomew called his name, saw exactly what Bartholomew had deduced.

‘Leycestre and I were just talking about what could be done for poor Robert,’ he gabbled unconvincingly. ‘The violent death of a monk is a terrible thing.’

‘But no one liked Robert,’ Michael pointed out immediately. ‘And why should you do anything for him? You have done little enough for the other victims.’

‘That was before a fellow cleric had died,’ said John defensively. ‘We will do something now. Flowers, perhaps. Or candles. We have some candles left over from Haywarde’s mass.’

‘Then they belong to me,’ declared Agnes immediately. ‘I paid for his mass, God rot his soul, and any candles remaining are mine. They will not be used for Robert.’

‘You would give one for the cause,’ wheedled John, his eyes uneasy. Bartholomew had seldom seen behaviour that was more indicative that its perpetrator was up to no good.

‘“Cause”?’ Michael pounced immediately. ‘And what “cause” would that be? Inciting the populace to riot?’

‘No!’ declared John, a little too quickly. ‘But I am on my way to the cathedral to pray with de Lisle and cannot stand here talking all day. What did you want from me?’

‘I wanted to make sure that the other bodies had been buried,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Agnes said she paid for Haywarde’s mass, which means that he, at least, is below ground, where he should be.’

‘So are the others,’ said John. ‘Blanche gave me sixpence for Glovere, which only left Chaloner. And Bishop de Lisle provided the funds to get rid of him.’

‘De Lisle?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did he do that? It is not his concern.’

‘Blanche has been telling folk that he wanted his victims underground before the next new moon rises,’ said Leycestre. ‘Murdered folk walk abroad then, if there is no layer of soil to keep them down. But I think de Lisle was just being charitable.’

‘He was being charitable,’ insisted John. ‘He has no ties to Chaloner, but no one else came forward and offered to take responsibility for his body, so the Bishop gave me a shilling.’

‘Did you ask him for it?’ said Michael.

‘He was praying in St Mary’s – it is quieter than the cathedral these days, which tends to be full of angry pilgrims who cannot pay Robert’s entrance fee to St Etheldreda’s shrine – when he became aware of the smell of Chaloner’s corpse. He said a mass there and then, and we had the man buried in an hour.’

Leycestre smiled. ‘De Lisle is often maligned because he is proud, but he has more goodness in his little finger than any of those wicked monks – present company excepted, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael dryly.

‘His kindness was a great relief,’ said John. ‘I was beginning to think that the parish would have to pay, and I am trying to save all our money to buy bread for the poor when winter comes.’

‘John should be careful,’ said Bartholomew, as the priest ushered his seditious parishioners away. ‘He is terrified of being accused of fuelling this rebellion, but he does nothing to calm troubled waters.’

‘No,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Indeed, it seems to me that he is doing a good deal of splashing.’

Robert lay in some splendour in the cathedral’s Lady Chapel, and by the time Bartholomew and Michael arrived the wet habit had been stripped from him and he had been covered with a clean white sheet. A coffin was ready, leaning against one wall, but Robert still dripped, and the lay-brothers did not want to spoil a fine box by having water leaking in it. So, Robert was draining: he lay on two boards balanced on a pair of trestles with several bowls underneath him. In the nave, the part of the cathedral that was deemed the town’s, de Lisle was busy with his mass. Michael’s prediction was right: the Bishop was praying with considerable conviction.

Michael dismissed the lay-brothers who had been charged with laying out the body, then indicated to Bartholomew that he should begin his examination. The physician leaned hard on Robert’s chest, to see whether water bubbled from his lungs. It did not, so he deduced that Robert had been dead when he had entered the water: the wound on the back of his neck had killed him, not the river. Next, he rolled the body to one side and examined the small injury that was visible just above the line of the almoner’s hair. It was slightly larger than that on the others, and had evidently bled, for the silken pillow under the corpse’s head was stained red. Bartholomew supposed that either the killer had been in a hurry and had not been as careful as he might, or Robert had struggled, despite being held still with a foot or a knee on his head.

Next, he examined Robert’s once-fine habit, which was now a sodden mess caked in mud and slime. The greenery that adhered to it was not just water vegetation: there were vine leaves, too. Bartholomew deduced that Robert had met his end in the vineyard, where he had been searching for William, and then had been taken to the water and pushed in.

Finally, he inspected Robert’s hands. He saw that the fingers were slightly swollen and that blood encrusted the nails. Robert, unlike the others, had struggled hard against what had happened to him. There were grazes on his knees, too, and one or two marks on his arms and body that might have resulted from some kind of skirmish.

Bartholomew did not want to linger in the cathedral, where he felt he was being watched by spectators who wanted to see a murdered monk for themselves; it would be better to discuss his findings in the infirmary, where he would also be able to help watch over the ailing Thomas. When they arrived, Henry glanced up from his position near the sub-prior’s bed. He looked tired already, and Bartholomew suspected that the infirmarian would see little of his own bed until Thomas either recovered or died. He wanted to ease Henry’s burden as much as possible, although he suspected that Henry would still want to undertake most of Thomas’s care himself.

Henry informed them that Thomas had stirred from his unconsciousness when the bell had sounded for the afternoon meal, at around three o’clock – Bartholomew thought this was probably because of some deep-rooted instinct – but had found himself unable to talk. As he had been on the verge of confessing to being involved in something untoward, Bartholomew was sceptical about an illness that so conveniently deprived the offender of coherent speech. However, Thomas was so clearly terrified by the sudden impairment that his hysterical panic went a long way in convincing the physician that he was not bluffing.

Reluctant to go to his own room to rest while the sub-prior lay stricken and frightened, Henry agreed to lie on one of the infirmary’s spare beds for a while. Almost immediately he fell asleep; the long night of nursing Roger, plus the energy expended in tending Thomas, had left him exhausted.

‘Robert did not die easily,’ said Bartholomew to Michael in a low voice, when they were seated in one of the rooms at the end of the infirmary hall. From it, he could see Thomas in Henry’s chamber next door, and could also watch the old men. ‘He knew what was going to happen to him, and he fought hard.’

‘The others did not,’ said Michael. ‘At least, you did not mention that they had.’

‘They may have done, but there was no damage to their hands, as there is to Robert’s. But the others probably did not know what was in store for them – the killer may have ordered them to lie still and quiet, and promised to release them if they complied. But Robert, like everyone else in Ely now, was aware of how the killer works. He knew he was going to die as soon as his assailant had him helpless on the ground.’

‘That explains why the others died without a fight, and Robert did not. But it implies that the killer is no rogue stranger from outside the city; he is someone they all knew, if not trusted.’ Michael pursed his lips. ‘I wonder what Thomas was involved in? It must have been something dreadful, or he would not have had a near-fatal seizure when I questioned him about it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew cautiously.

‘Then what do you think?’ pressed Michael, aware of Bartholomew’s hesitation. ‘What was in that packet? And who gave it to him? It might have been a letter. Perhaps it was even the letter that resulted in William fleeing his priory with half its available cash.’

‘It may have been a letter,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Although it would have been quite a long one. It was no single sheet of parchment that changed hands in the vineyards last night.’

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael, pacing in the small room. ‘I was so determined that Thomas should not believe we were spying on him in the vineyard that I neglected to question him when I should have done. If I had accused him of lying when he first did it, we would not have had that unpleasant scene in the refectory today.’

‘No, we would have had it in one of the most remote corners of the monastery, which would have been far worse. But the man was ripe for a seizure anyway – we saw that last night when he was sweating and panting over that short walk from the priory. I suspect that the strain of being involved in subterfuge set him off, not you.’

‘That killer is growing bold, Matt,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘At first, he murdered secretly and in the depths of night, when all honest folk were in their beds, but today he struck in broad daylight.’

‘It was in broad daylight, but it was also in the vineyard – parts of which are very isolated – where the killer knew he would be unlikely to be disturbed.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Michael. ‘Robert was wandering about there, so why could others not have been, too?’

‘That is an interesting point. I wonder whether the killer spoke to Robert first and learned why he was in the vineyard hunting for William, instead of gorging himself in the refectory.’

Michael mused for a moment. ‘But that assumes that Robert knew the killer. It also assumes that the killer was someone from outside the priory – all the monks inside had been party to the unedifying scene in the refectory, and knew perfectly well why Robert was out and about.’

‘William did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was not eating his second breakfast when you interrogated Thomas, and would have no idea why Robert should be hunting for him.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘He would not.’

‘My explanation also supposes that the killer gained access to the vineyards with ease. They are surrounded by formidable walls on three sides and by priory buildings on the other. There are four gates, but all are kept locked and only the Steeple Gate has a guard who will undo it for you.’

‘The culprit broke in, then,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps the previous night.’

‘Or he has a key. You borrowed one easily enough when you wanted to use it the other day.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael softly. ‘There are a number of the wretched things, and every monk here is aware that they are hanging on hooks in the chapter house. This is not a priory that restricts every movement of its members, and we all know that we are permitted to leave the precincts on occasion if necessary – as long as we do not abuse the privilege.’

‘So, a count of the keys will tell us nothing, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What about asking if anyone is aware who borrowed them recently?’

‘That would tell us nothing, either,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I know for a fact that Henry has had one for years, so that he can go out to hunt for medicinal herbs when he needs them, and there are others who also hoard them for their personal convenience – Robert for example, and Thomas and Symon.’

‘Robert had one? Then perhaps the killer stole it from him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘If we start asking about keys, we will waste a lot of time and possibly end up accusing someone who is innocent. It is too difficult an avenue of investigation, and it will be too easy for the killer to lie.’

‘I do not understand how the killer took Robert’s body from the vineyard and dumped it in the Quay with no one seeing what he was doing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was not dark, and this is a busy city.’

‘That is simple to answer, although I am surprised you need me to point it out. It is market day, and even if you have nothing to sell or to buy, it is the most important day of the week for Ely folk. Everyone gathers in the marketplace to chat and exchange information. It is safe to assume that the killer would be unlikely to meet anyone near the water.’

‘But even so, it is a brave man who risks being seen by a merchant glancing out of his window, or by an apprentice on an errand for his master. This is a lively place, and to expect the Quay to be deserted at that time of the day is unreasonable.’

‘Nevertheless, it is what happened. You examined the body yourself, and you were the one who pointed out the vine leaves. Since the corpse did not walk to the water itself, it must have been taken there.’

‘I suppose it is possible that Robert was killed on the Quay – not in the vineyard – and then his body was rolled into the water,’ said Bartholomew, casting around for plausible solutions.

‘Why would Robert have been at the Quay? He was searching the priory grounds for William, not looking for fish. And anyway, what about the leaves you found on his clothes? They were from vines, and they mean he was in the vineyard.’

‘But they do not mean that he was killed in the vineyard. And suppose he was not searching for William at all? Suppose he was at the Quay for some other reason?’

‘Damn it all! I wish I had not questioned Thomas – then he would not be in the infirmary, and Robert would not be in the cathedral with a slashed neck.’

‘How do you know that? Robert might have gone to his death today regardless of anything you could have done, while I have already told you that Thomas was ripe for a seizure.’

‘God’s blood, Matt! When I agreed to investigate this case, I had no idea it would lead to all this. I am tempted to grab my horse and ride back to Cambridge today, where at least I understand the scholars and their ways.’

‘And what about de Lisle? He will not appreciate being abandoned while a charge of murder hangs over his head.’

‘No, he will not,’ said Michael. ‘But I am at a loss as how to make any progress. There is Thomas, who declined to tell us whom he was meeting or what was passed to him in that white package. There is William, who convinced Tysilia she is his sister and then persuaded her to spy on Blanche for him. Now he has fled.’

‘If he has fled, Brother,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘It would not surprise me if he turned up floating in the river at some point, and the missing money was nowhere to be found.’

‘What are you saying? That someone packed away all William’s belongings, and then pretended to be him riding away on a gelding last night?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘Why not? His flight does not fit the evidence: he was investigating the murders on his own behalf, then, with no explanation, he left without a word to anyone. It is too odd.’

‘You would leave without a word if you thought you were about to be murdered and were running for your life.’

‘But why should he think such a thing? We have no evidence that he was afraid, or that he had discovered any dangerous secret.’

‘Perhaps he fled because he is the murderer, and he felt the net closing around him.’ Michael grimaced. While he did not much care for the bob-haired hosteller, he felt the man had some redeeming qualities, and did not like to think of him as the killer. He would have preferred the loathsome Robert or the gluttonous, selfish Thomas to be the culprit.

‘William as the killer means that he made good his escape last night, then returned today to dispatch Robert,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That does not make sense, even bearing in mind that they were bitter enemies.’

‘Perhaps William has not gone far,’ pressed Michael. ‘You are assuming that he has disappeared from the area, but perhaps he is close by, and intends to continue his deadly work until we can stop him. I have already sent Meadowman and Cynric to ask the people who live on the causeways whether they saw him leave the city.’

‘Good idea. But to continue with our list of people who have demonstrated curious behaviour, we also have Robert, whom Thomas accused of being involved before he had his fit.’

‘But obviously he is not the killer. Meanwhile, in the guesthouse, we have Blanche and her retinue. Tysilia has some strange relationship with William and knows more than she will tell, while you think Lady Blanche was in the Mermaid in the presence of gypsies, although, not surprisingly, she denies it. I do not like that Father John, either, or his association with those rabble rousers.’

‘Not liking someone is no reason to include them on our list of suspicious characters,’ said Bartholomew, smiling.

Michael grinned. ‘But it is satisfying to see them there.’

‘Going back to the priory, there are others we should keep an open mind about: there is Prior Alan, who must hate de Lisle for being appointed to the See he thought was rightfully his. There is Symon, who seems as feckless and shifty a man as I have ever encountered …’

‘You do not like him because he is a dismal librarian,’ observed Michael. ‘But there is that snivelling Julian, too. Yesterday, I caught him filing a key into a viciously sharp point. Lord knows what he was planning to do with it.’

‘Henry says he has an obsession with sharp implements, so we should definitely retain him on our list of suspects.’

‘Could it really be that simple?’ asked Michael. ‘A boy with a deep-rooted desire to do harm and a love of sharp objects?’

‘And then there is Henry,’ said Bartholomew, lowering his voice as he resumed the list. ‘Do not forget that he has access to sharp implements, too – a good many of them confiscated from Julian, I suspect, as well as his blood-letting devices.’

‘Henry could not have killed Robert,’ said Michael with a superior smile, knowing he could prove his point. ‘He was in the library when that happened. I heard him moving around up there, and so did you, when Robert was in the vineyard having his neck slit.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Henry can be discounted then. But your Bishop cannot. While he may not have wielded the knife himself, it would not surprise me if he knows who did.’

‘But that does not explain why he instructed me to investigate,’ said Michael. ‘If he wanted the truth left undisturbed, he should have asked someone sycophantic to investigate for him.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Brother, but in the past you have made no secret of the fact that you might alter the truth in order to achieve the verdict you want, and your Bishop is always delighted when things work to his satisfaction.’

‘But I am not prepared to overlook the murder of innocent people,’ objected Michael.

‘You might be if you considered hiding the truth was for the greater good. Both you and I have kept silent on matters in the past, when we thought it was better people did not know the truth. For example, no one but us knows that the martyred Simon d’Ambrey lies in Master Wilson’s grave in St Michael’s churchyard in Cambridge.’

‘That was different,’ said Michael. ‘Justice had been served, and we were merely tying up loose ends. Four murders are not loose ends, and I would not be prepared to see a killer go unpunished for such crimes.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, still not certain that the monk would make public the facts of the case if he felt it was inappropriate to do so. While he generally trusted Michael to do what was right, he felt the monk was somewhat under the power of his Bishop, who might not do the same.

‘And on top of all our suspects, we have a clan of gypsies who appear at peculiar moments; we have a missing fisherman who promised to tell us what we wanted to know but then fled; and we have talk of water-spirits and other such nonsense.’

Bartholomew stood. Henry was stirring in the hall. The infirmarian rubbed sleep from his eyes and went to kneel next to Thomas, indicating with a tired nod to Bartholomew that he was ready to begin his vigil and that the physician was free to go.

‘There is only so much we can do by speculating,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We need some facts, and we will not find them here. We must go out.’

‘Out?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Now? In the full heat of day? It was bad enough when we had to chase to the Quay. I am not sure I am up to another foray under the blaze of the sun.’

‘Oh, I am sure we will survive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we need full daylight for what we are going to do.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Michael warily.

‘We are going to walk upstream along the banks of the river, to see whether we can find the place where Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were murdered. But first, we will look in the vineyard, to see whether we can determine where Robert met his end.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, reluctantly heaving his bulk to its feet. ‘The sooner we can uncover this murdering fiend, the sooner we can return to the safety of Cambridge. And believe me, that little town has never seemed so appealing.’

It was very hot in the late afternoon sunlight. Michael fetched a wide-brimmed black hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, while Bartholomew changed in the infirmary. He dispensed with hose and jerkin in favour of a loose tunic and some baggy leggings. Michael declared that the physician looked like a peasant, but at least he was comfortable. Michael was sweating into his voluminous habit, and complained that it prickled his skin and caused rashes.

Since he was there, Bartholomew asked Henry about the keys to the back gate, but the infirmarian merely confirmed what Michael had already summarised: that there was a number of spare keys, and that the brethren tended to help themselves as and when they needed them. No one took any notice of who took what and the chapter house was deserted for most of the day; anyone could enter and take a key without being observed.

Henry walked with them to the infirmary door, looking for Julian, so that he could dispatch the lad to fetch wine from the kitchens. He wanted to make a soothing syrup from cloves and honey for Ynys’s chest, and he needed the wine as a base. Julian, however, had made the most of his mentor’s uncharacteristic afternoon nap, and had disappeared on business of his own. Henry made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat.

‘That boy is his own worst enemy! I am doing all I can to give him a trade that will earn him respect – and a living if he ever finds himself expelled – but he flouts me at every turn.’

‘You should let Alan dismiss him,’ advised Michael. ‘You have done all you can, but there is clearly no good in him. You cannot make a beef pie from a weasel and a pile of sand.’

Henry smiled bleakly. ‘I confess I am beginning to wonder whether all my efforts have been in vain. Still, I am not ready to concede defeat yet.’

‘What kind of wine do you use for your syrup?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s bored sigh as the monk anticipated the start of a lengthy medical discussion.

Henry raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Whatever the cooks give me. Why? Do you find one type makes for a better result than another?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Bartholomew. ‘For example, the vile vintage from the monks’ vineyards will not be very soothing for Ynys. I use a rich red from southern France.’ He rummaged in his bag and produced the small skin he always carried there for emergencies. ‘Try this, and let me know what you think.’

Henry took it from him. ‘That is very kind. I will replenish it with something of equal quality later. Do not forget to ask for it back. But here is Bishop de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. What can he want? I hope no one was taken ill during the mass for Robert.’

‘I have come for some cordial,’ said Ralph, approaching and leaning against the door. He treated the three men to a confident grin. ‘It is too hot for beer – even bona cervisia – and my Bishop wants some of that nice raspberry syrup you make.’

‘But I do not have much left,’ objected Henry indignantly.

There was a cold gleam in Ralph’s eyes, which intensified when he straightened from his slouch. ‘That is not a pleasant attitude to take, Brother. Do you want me to return to my Bishop and tell him that the infirmarian refused him a refreshing drink after he has spent all afternoon saying masses for the almoner?’

‘Be off with you,’ ordered Michael angrily. ‘You are doing my Bishop a disservice by going about making demands like this.’

‘It is all right, Brother,’ said Henry. ‘The Bishop can have the last of my cordial if that is what he wants.’

Ralph revealed ugly black teeth in a grin of victory, and followed Henry inside. Bartholomew eyed him with distaste, disliking the man’s confident swagger and assumed superiority because he was a bishop’s servant. He was dirty, too, and a sharp, unwashed smell emanated from his greasy clothes. He was not a good ambassador for a fastidiously clean man like de Lisle.

Michael shook his head. ‘That is not de Lisle’s errand, Matt. That is Ralph acting on his own initiative, and I will wager you a jug of bona cervisia that my Bishop will never see that cordial. Ralph has always been a selfish sort of fellow.’

‘Why does de Lisle keep him in his service, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is not good for a bishop to employ such a man?’

‘He needs someone he can trust,’ replied Michael, stepping from the shade of the hospital door into the brightness of the sun beyond. He winced as the heat hit him. ‘Such trust is difficult to come by, and usually results only after years of service. I doubt de Lisle likes Ralph, but Ralph is loyal and that counts for a good deal.’

They walked slowly through the vineyard, each taking one side of the main path as they scanned for signs that a scuffle had taken place. Bartholomew smiled when he saw one area of disturbed soil: it was the spot where he and Michael had dropped to their hands and knees to spy on Thomas. He heartily wished Cynric had been with them, because the Welshman would not have allowed himself to be caught, and he would almost certainly have overheard the conversation without being detected.

‘This is hopeless!’ mumbled Michael, wiping his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘We do not know that Robert used this path, and these vineyards are enormous. We are wasting our time. We should pay another visit to the Mermaid, and see what else we can find out about Mackerell.’

‘We would learn nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, I suspect they have already told us all they intend to say, and second, they are Fenmen, who are a taciturn lot at the best of times. They will not surrender information to people like us.’

‘And what they are prepared to tell us is nonsense,’ agreed Michael in disgust. ‘Water-spirits, indeed! I will give Mackerell water-spirits if I ever see him again.’

‘I hope you will have the opportunity. I expected to see him dead this morning, washed down the river into the Monks’ Hythe, like the others.’

‘He is alive. Symon said he saw him this morning near the castle.’

‘Symon was uncertain. Why would Mackerell be in the priory grounds, anyway? I think that if he is still alive, then he has done what Thomas said – disappeared into the marshes he knows better than anyone else.’

‘Do you think we can discount Symon’s sighting then?’

‘I think so. It does not make sense – unless Mackerell killed Robert of course.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael tiredly. ‘Mackerell was not a particularly poor man, and so would have no cause to deal with the priory’s almoner. He could not have been resentful about miserly alms.’

‘We do not know that,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As we keep saying, there is a good deal we do not know about this case.’

‘I had not expected Robert to be the next victim,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But we are getting nowhere with this, Matt. We should walk up this damned river, since you are so sure we will find something there.’

‘In a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to look along some of these smaller paths first.’

He ignored Michael’s groan of displeasure, and concentrated on exploring a promising area near some scattered stakes. But the presence of feathers suggested that a fox had killed a bird there, and that the scuffed soil had nothing to do with Robert or his killer. Eventually, they had walked the entire length of the vineyard, and were near the rear gate. Behind them, the tithe barn loomed, casting a cool shadow across the path along which they walked.

Michael shuffled across to the barn and flopped against it, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a piece of linen. Bartholomew picked up a stick and began to prod around in the grass near the path, looking for he knew not what. It did not take him long to see that Michael was right, and that they were unlikely to discover anything that could help them by searching at random. And even if they did manage to pinpoint the place where Robert had died, it would probably tell them little that they could use in the tracking of his killer. Dispirited, he went to join Michael. He was hot and thirsty, and wished they had some ale with them.

As if he read his friend’s thoughts, Michael rummaged in his scrip and produced a wineskin, showing that Bartholomew was not the only one who carried supplies for just such situations. It contained a rather robust white, which tended to increase Bartholomew’s thirst rather than relieve it, but he took a hearty swallow anyway, grateful for the fact that it washed the dust from his throat. He looked up at the barn that towered above them.

It was a huge structure, designed to take grain from the people who worked the priory’s land. There were two giant doors at the front, with smaller entrances piercing the sides about halfway down. Several substantial locks sealed them, and the whole thing was robust and rigid, intended to protect its contents from marauding flocks of rats as well as those people who might decide to repatriate some of the wheat within.

‘Who has the keys to the barn?’ Bartholomew asked, taking another swallow of the wine, then passing the skin back to Michael.

‘A number of people, I imagine. The Prior will have his own set, as will sub-prior, hosteller, almoner and cellarer. I heard at the evening meal last night that this barn is already full, and that any tithes presented from now on will go to the sextry barn near St Mary’s.’

‘Another vast edifice,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Your priory certainly knows how to squeeze its money’s worth from its tenants.’

‘It owns a lot of land,’ said Michael defensively. ‘Of course it needs large barns. But I knew this one was full anyway, because I recall watching some lay-brothers trying to cram the last few sacks inside it a couple of days ago.’

‘I remember, too.’ Bartholomew looked thoughtfully at Michael. ‘So, everyone knows it is full, and that it has been locked until the grain is needed at the end of autumn. There is no need to disturb it and risk rats getting inside until then, is there?’

‘I imagine not,’ said Michael, bored. ‘I really have no idea about agriculture, Matt. You must ask a farmer if you are interested in that sort of thing.’ He took another swallow of wine, tipping his hat back from his face as he did so, to run his sleeve across his wet forehead.

‘You do not need to be a farmer to know that a full barn will not be disturbed for some weeks. It would make a perfect hiding place. And you just said that the hosteller has a key.’

Michael’s eyed gleamed, and he scrambled to his feet, his lethargy vanished. ‘You are right, Matt! We should have thought of this sooner.’ He stepped back, and squinted up at the barn, scanning it for weaknesses. ‘There is a window on the upper floor. You can climb up those beams and undo the latch.’

‘I most certainly cannot,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the near-impossible feat Michael expected him to perform. ‘I am not an acrobat. We should try the doors first.’

‘They will be locked,’ objected Michael. ‘There is no point.’

‘Locks can be forced,’ said Bartholomew, producing a hefty pair of childbirth forceps he had used in this way before. At one time, he would have been appalled to think of his handsome forceps being used for such a purpose – they had been a gift from a very dear friend, quite aside from the fact that he used them to grab a baby’s head while it was still inside the mother – but no expense had been spared on the forceps, and they were the most resilient thing he owned. It was almost impossible to bend or dent them, and they had proved useful for all sorts of purposes.

Michael watched as Bartholomew inserted the arms of his forceps into the gap between door and frame. It was an easy matter to ease it open, and the physician wondered whether they should mention the fact to Leycestre, so that the would-be rebel could arrange for some of the wheat to be returned to the folk who probably had a better right to it.

With a creak, the door swung open, and Bartholomew and Michael peered into the dusty gloom. It was almost completely black, because all the windows were closed to keep out pests and any gaps in the timber sides had been sealed for the same reason. But, after a while, their eyes grew used to the darkness, and they could detect the vague outlines of heaped sacks within. They pushed open the door as far as it would go for light, and made their way inside.

At first, Bartholomew thought they had wasted their time. It was unpleasantly hot inside the granary, and dust from the wheat made his eyes scratchy and his throat tickle. Michael began to sneeze uncontrollably, and it was not long before he abandoned the search to Bartholomew, while he waited outside. There was a sudden eerie rustle, and the physician froze, half expecting a furious William to come leaping out of the shadows, incensed that his hiding place had been so easily discovered. But whatever had made the noise was still when Bartholomew inched his way over to investigate, and he could see nothing other than endless rows of wheat sacks. He decided the granary was not as rat-resistant as it appeared.

He was about to give up, when it occurred to him that he should try to climb as high as possible, and then inspect the entire barn from above, to ensure that no one was hiding on top of the piled bags. He peered around, and located the rough wooden ladder that led to the upper floor. He called to Michael, to tell him what he planned to do.

‘Do not bother,’ the monk shouted back. ‘William is not in there. No one is. How could a normal person survive in it? It is as hot as a baker’s oven and the air is thick with dust.’

‘It will not take a moment,’ said Bartholomew, putting one foot on the bottom rung and beginning to climb. ‘And we do not want to miss something.’

Michael sighed heavily, but came to hold the bottom of the ladder. ‘I suppose I had better wait here. Since you were afraid of falling on the outside, I should be prepared to catch you if you fall on the inside.’

Carefully, because the ladder was in a poor state of repair, Bartholomew began to ascend. At every step it grew hotter, so that it was almost impossible to breathe. Wheat dust caught in his throat, making him cough, and through his choking he could hear Michael sneezing in the darkness below. He supposed that it would not be so bad when the great doors were thrown open, or when the weather was not quite so hot, but that day it was a vile experience. Anxious to complete his task and return to the comparative cool of the sunlight outside, he climbed more quickly, ignoring the protesting creaks of wood that should have been renewed years before.

When he reached the top of the ladder and stepped cautiously on to the platform at its head, he found his way barred by sacks that were piled as high as the ceiling. There was no earthly way anyone could be hiding there – even a rat would have problems insinuating itself between the closely packed bags. Moving carefully, he turned to inspect what lay below.

Looking from above offered a radically different perspective. The bags were lumpy and uneven, although they appeared to be neat enough from the ground. Bartholomew could see Michael below him, wiping his nose on a piece of linen that gleamed very white in the gloom. There was something else, too. Directly beneath him, Bartholomew saw an indentation in a sack that would perfectly match the shape of a man: someone had recently been there.

Still moving cautiously, he climbed down a few steps, then leapt from the ladder to the top of the pile, landing on his hands and knees and releasing a choking cloud of chaff. He coughed hard, vaguely aware that Michael was demanding to know what he thought he was doing. Almost blinded by the whirling dust, Bartholomew groped around, trying to see whether the person who had been in the granary had left some clue as to his identity. It was not long before his tentative fingers encountered something hard. He took hold of it and discovered it was yet another grain sack, although a clanking sound suggested that something metal, rather than cereal, was contained within. Slinging it over his shoulder, he began to descend the ladder.

He was halfway down when the thing he had been afraid would happen did: one of the rungs gave way. Had he been using both hands to climb instead of one, he would have been able to save himself, but he was unbalanced by the heavy sack and the broken rung was the last straw. With a yell, he found himself precipitated downwards, arms and legs flailing.

He landed with a thump on more bags of grain. They were not as hard as the ground would have been, but the fall winded him nevertheless. He decided that wheat was a lot harder than it looked. His sudden weight had caused the cheap material of one sack to split with a sharp rip, and its yellow contents began to spill across the floor. Mixed with the grain was something darker, and when Bartholomew inspected it closely he saw it was gravel. He rubbed his elbow ruefully, and thought it was not surprising the sacks were so hard for a falling man if they were more than half full of stone.

‘I caught it,’ he heard Michael say. He turned to see that the monk had deftly fielded the bag he had dropped.

‘Well, that is a relief,’ he grumbled, standing stiffly and flexing his bruised arm. ‘I am glad you decided to save the bag and not me.’

‘The sack looked the lighter of the two, and I thought you would come to no harm on all that soft wheat anyway.’

‘Most of it is grit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No wonder so many people in Ely have broken teeth, if they eat bread made from this rubbish.’

Michael leaned down and ran a handful of the grain through his fingers, his eyes round with surprise. ‘The lay-brothers should have been more careful with what they accepted. Alan will not be pleased when he learns that most of the tithes comprise gravel.’

‘True. And he will never know who gave it to him, either.’

‘He will if all the sacks are like this,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Let us hope that only one farmer has been so rash as to try to cheat the priory. But I do not like it in here, Matt. We should go outside to see what you have found.’

Bartholomew was grateful to be out in the sunshine. Michael’s habit was covered in chaff, and no amount of brushing seemed to remove it. Bartholomew took off his tunic and gave it a vigorous shake, disgusted by the dust that billowed from it. He was even more disgusted to see how much stuck to his body, but supposed it would come off when he had cooled down.

He sat next to Michael in the shade and watched the monk struggle to untie the thongs that fastened the sack’s neck. It was secured very tightly, and it was some time before it could be unravelled. When it was finally open, Michael up-ended it on to the ground. With a clank and a clatter, three objects rolled out. The first was a handsome silver chalice that appeared to have come from the high altar of a church.

‘Has a theft of religious vessels been reported in the city recently?’ asked Bartholomew, picking it up and polishing it on his tunic.

Michael shook his head and reached for the second object – a small pouch. He opened it, and bright coins rolled into the palm of his hand. They were gold nobles and he counted twenty of them – a total of ten marks.

‘Ten marks is what William took,’ said Bartholomew, regarding his friend soberly. ‘Or it is what Thomas told us William requisitioned from the hosteller’s fund.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That had not escaped my attention, either.’

The third object was perhaps the most puzzling. It was a neat white package, similar – if not identical – to the one they had seen Thomas secreting away the night before.

‘Well,’ said Michael, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. ‘Is this Thomas’s property, do you think?’

‘It looks the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But does that mean Thomas took William’s money and hid them here together?’

‘Or does it mean that William took or was given this package before he decided to flee with all his belongings?’

‘Then why did he leave them behind?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I am sure ten marks would come in useful for a man on the run, especially if he does not intend to return.’

‘I do see how he can return. Stealing monastery property is not something most priors look kindly on. No, Matt. If William has gone, and his missing belongings suggest that he has, then he will not be coming back.’

‘But what about his gold? Why leave it? The barn was only a temporary hiding place, because the grain will be used by the end of the year. It is not as if he can come back for it whenever he likes.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I wish Thomas could speak! A few sentences from him would probably solve all these mysteries.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly. ‘He may not be able to speak, but he can write! That will suffice – we shall have our answers after all!’

‘You heard Robert goading him the other day,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Thomas is virtually illiterate. I suggested he wrote down what he wanted to say as soon as we discovered he could not speak, and I tried very hard to make sense of his scrawl. I thought paralysis was causing the problem, but Henry told me that he barely knows his alphabet.’

‘I forgot about his lack of skills in that direction,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘It has always been something of a scandal, actually – that a man should rise so high in our Order and the Church without being able to spell his name. Damn it all! I thought for a moment that we might have had our solution.’

‘Not from Thomas. But perhaps we can show him these objects, and see from his reaction whether they are his or William’s.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘At least we do not have to walk along the river today. It will be too late by the time we finish with Thomas.’

‘What is in the parcel?’

Michael opened it carefully. It was tied with fine twine and sealed with a line of red wax. It was not large, perhaps the size of a small book. And once Michael had carefully removed the wrapping from the package, he saw that was exactly what it was.

‘It is a book of hours,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Is that all? I expected a letter from the King, or something far more interesting.’

Bartholomew took it from him, and flicked quickly through it to see whether any passages had been marked that might be significant. But there was nothing.

‘It seems very old,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Perhaps it is valuable.’

‘It may be, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding it disparagingly. ‘It is a little gaudy for my taste. I do not like bright colours in my books. That is for men who cannot read, like Thomas.’

But when they returned to the infirmary, Thomas was sleeping, and Bartholomew would not allow Michael to wake him. Still troubled by the notion that he was responsible for the man’s condition, Michael deferred to his friend’s opinion, and wandered away to spend the evening with Prior Alan. Bartholomew offered to spend the second half of the night watching over Thomas. Reluctantly, Henry acknowledged that he could not tend Thomas all night and his elderly patients during the day, and agreed to wake the physician at two o’clock. When he took Bartholomew’s shoulder and shook it, the bell was ringing for nocturns. Henry’s eyes were heavy and he seemed grateful to be going to his own bed.

Bartholomew went into the hall and lit a candle, intending to pass the night by reading Philaretus’s De Pulsibus. The infirmary was as silent as the grave. One of the old men occasionally cried out, and Roger and Ynys were sleepless and gazed into the darkness, lost in their memories. Thomas’s sleep was unnaturally deep, but his breathing was little more than a whisper, not even enough to vibrate the mounds of fat that billowed around him. Bartholomew studied the grey, exhausted face and wondered whether the sub-prior would see another morning.

When dawn came, it was with a blaze of colour. The sky lightened gradually, then distant clouds were painted grey, orange and pink, and finally gold. Henry awoke and came hurrying to Thomas’s bedside, smiling a prayer when he saw the fat sub-prior still lived. There were lines under Henry’s eyes that suggested he had slept badly, but he was still cheerful and patient with the old men. Bartholomew offered to sit with Thomas while Henry attended prime, not at all disappointed to miss another volume competition in the cathedral.

When Henry returned, Julian and Welles were with him, carrying the dishes and baskets that contained the old men’s breakfasts. There was a large pot of warm oatmeal, enriched with cream and enough salt to make an ocean envious, the inevitable wheat-bread, some tiny cubes of boiled chicken and a bowl of candied fruits thick with honey from the priory’s beehives. Bartholomew saw Julian slide a slice of peach into his own mouth when he thought no one was looking.

‘Your own meal will be ready soon,’ he remarked, suspecting that the sickly fruits were the most popular item with the old men.

Julian treated him to a hostile sneer. ‘These are wasted on those old corpses in there! You might as well give them dung – they would never know the difference.’

‘Julian!’ exclaimed Welles, his normally smiling face dismayed. He was busy spearing chicken with the masonry nail Bartholomew had seen him use in the refectory before Thomas was taken ill, arranging the cubes in an appetising pile on one side of a platter. ‘That is a vile thing to say.’

‘But I would know the difference,’ said Henry sternly, as he ladled oatmeal into wooden bowls. ‘And if I catch you trying to feed my old friends anything unpleasant, you will have me to answer to.’

‘He would not really try to feed them dung,’ began Welles, loyally defensive of his classmate. His words petered out when he saw from the expression on Julian’s face that he might.

A loud thumping from the library above made them all glance upward.

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Henry in astonishment. ‘Symon is at work already, and the sun has only just risen. That is unusual.’

‘I expect one of the priory’s guests has demanded to use the books, and he feels obliged to make at least some pretence at caring for them,’ said Welles.

Bartholomew was unimpressed to see that even the novices knew about and condemned the appalling state of the library, and yet Prior Alan was still not prepared to replace the man with someone competent.

‘Bishop Northburgh, actually,’ came a voice from behind them. They were all startled to see Symon framed in the doorway. ‘And I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Welles, or I shall tell the Prior about your insolence.’

‘Why does Northburgh want to use the library?’ asked Henry. ‘He is supposed to be dedicating his time to solving these murders.’

‘I imagine he wants to scour the medical texts to learn about elixirs that will make him young again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In case you fail to provide him with one.’

Henry grimaced. ‘Prior Alan should never have agreed to those terms. He has put me in an impossible situation.’

‘You should let me try a few things on him,’ offered Julian, selecting a knife used for paring fruit and fingering the blade meaningfully. ‘I am prepared to use more imaginative methods than you are.’

‘Perhaps so, but Northburgh wants to survive the treatment intact,’ said Henry wryly. ‘He does not want to lose his wrinkles by having his skin pared from his bones.’ He glanced upward as another thump sounded from above. ‘Is that him now?’

‘That is Bukton,’ said Symon, insinuating himself into the infirmary and choosing one of the candied fruits to eat. ‘I do not perform menial tasks like cleaning. That is why we have novices.’

Welles and Julian exchanged a glance, then turned back to their preparations wordlessly. Bartholomew was suddenly aware that the paring knife had disappeared.

‘Where is that blade?’ he demanded, looking hard at Julian. ‘It was here a moment ago.’

Julian stared back at him insolently, and did not reply.

Henry sighed. ‘Put it back, Julian. You know you are not allowed knives.’

‘I do not have it,’ said Julian, in a way that made Bartholomew sure that he did. ‘I finished using it and I replaced it on the table. You can search me if you like.’ He raised his arms above his head, inviting any interested parties to run their hands down his person. No one took him up on the offer.

‘I expect it will reappear after breakfast,’ said Henry, eyeing Julian minutely. ‘And then we shall say no more about it. But we must give my old friends their food, before it goes completely cold.’ He watched Julian and Welles carry the bowls of oatmeal to the hall, and then turned to Symon. ‘Did you want anything in particular, Brother, or are you here to avoid watching Bukton labouring in the library, lest you feel compelled to help him?’

Bartholomew glanced at the infirmarian in surprise. Henry was not usually sharp-tongued. Indeed, he had the patience of a saint when dealing with people Bartholomew regarded as unworthy of such courtesy. Symon did not appear to notice the insult, however.

‘I came to see Thomas, actually,’ he said, reaching out for another fruit, but having second thoughts when Henry wielded a ladle at him in a rather menacing fashion. ‘Is he still with us?’

‘As you see,’ said Henry, gesturing to the monstrous mound of flesh in the chamber at the far end of the hall. ‘He needs all our prayers, but it is best that we restrict visitors for now. Do you want to pray for him in the chapel?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Symon, sounding disappointed. Bartholomew was unsure if the librarian was sorry that he was not allowed to pass the time of day with the ailing sub-prior, or sorry that Thomas was still in the land of the living. He found himself speculating on why Symon should wish the obese Thomas dead, when an illiterate sub-prior and a secretive and elusive librarian would probably have had little cause for contact.

Another bang from upstairs made the librarian wince, although he made no move to leave.

Henry picked up a tray containing five small dishes of the honeyed fruit and a basket of bread. ‘You should see to your books, Brother,’ he recommended as a third crash rattled the bottles on his shelves.

Symon nodded reluctantly. Still casting curious backward glances at the sub-prior on his sickbed, he left and Bartholomew heard his footsteps ascending the wooden stairs that led to his domain. Henry heaved a sigh of relief that his voyeuristic guest had gone, then smiled when Bartholomew took another tray containing jugs of breakfast ale.

‘I imagine Symon will not be the only one to come here today, anxious to see for himself the miserable state of our poor sub-prior. Thomas is not a kind man, and few monks who were novices here have cause to remember him fondly.’

‘So Michael mentioned. And Bukton told me that little has changed since then. Thomas is still unpopular with the priory’s youngsters.’

‘Sometimes grave sicknesses change men’s lives,’ said Henry, walking into the infirmary to supervise Julian and Welles as they distributed the oatmeal. ‘Perhaps that will happen to Thomas, if he recovers.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, who thought Thomas too thoroughly reprehensible to be a candidate for Damascus Road life changes. When he happened to glance back at the workbench, he saw the paring knife had been replaced.

When the old men had been fed – and Bartholomew had ensured that Henry had eaten a little, too – the physician went to the refectory to join the brethren for his own breakfast. He almost collided with Symon, who was hovering near the chapel door, craning his neck to see Thomas and apparently unable to resist the attraction of seeing a mighty man felled. Bartholomew made a point of waiting for him, unwilling to allow the man’s macabre presence to distress either Henry or the old men, and they made uncomfortable, desultory conversation as they walked together to the refectory. They were overtaken by Welles, Julian and Bukton, released from their duties by the ringing of the breakfast bell. The three lads pushed and shoved each other playfully as they raced towards their meal.

When Bartholomew arrived, Michael was already there, rolling up his sleeves in anticipation of some serious snatching and grabbing, although the competition had been severely reduced at the high table that morning. Empty spaces gaped where Thomas, Robert and William usually sat, while Henry had asked to be excused so that he could remain with his patients. Alan presided, but was distracted and careworn, and ate little of the sumptuous meal provided by the kitchens.

‘Is Thomas awake?’ the Prior asked anxiously, seeing that Bartholomew was to join them for the meal. ‘Has he regained his speech yet?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although he rested well last night, which is a good sign.’

‘But he has not spoken?’ pressed Symon, very interested. ‘He remains mute?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he may regain that power today. Why do you ask?’

‘No particular reason,’ said Symon, with a careless shrug. ‘I was merely voicing concern for one of my brethren.’

Alan mumbled a hasty grace, and Bartholomew turned his attention to some of the best oatmeal he had ever consumed, despite the fact that the cooks seemed to have ladled salt into it with a shovel. He wondered whether the monks liked it salty because it made them want to drink more ale.

In contrast to the unease and awkwardness among the few remaining occupants of the high table, the main body of the refectory exuded an atmosphere of relaxed jollity. It was not only the novices who appeared to be happy and hopeful, but many of the older monks, too, and Bartholomew sensed that the trio of sub-prior, almoner and hosteller had done little to create a pleasant environment in the monastery and much to repress one. Welles and Bukton smiled and laughed, while Julian was positively jubilant. Bartholomew watched Julian closely as he ate, thinking that there was something unsettling about the lad’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the incident regarding the paring knife, or whether Julian, like the other monks, was merely grateful to be free of Thomas’s looming presence for a while.

After the meal, which seemed unusually protracted that morning – mostly because he wanted to escape the uncomfortable company at the high table – Bartholomew walked with Michael back to the infirmary, to see whether Thomas was awake. Now that the day was wearing on, Michael was anxious to ask him about the contents of the grain sack they had discovered the night before.

Symon had left the refectory before them, and set off in the direction of his domain, arms swinging and feet stamping with military precision. Because Bartholomew had spent some time over the past few days tracking Symon in order to be admitted to the library, he was familiar with the man’s habits. He knew Symon always took the longer path, through the gardens and around the eastern end of the hospital chapel. This route was invariably deserted, and he guessed that Symon preferred it because he was unlikely to run into anyone who might ask him for a book.

However, that morning Symon’s ghoulish fascination with Thomas led him to abandon custom and stride instead towards the Dark Cloister, which would mean a diversion through the infirmary itself. Bartholomew saw him disappear inside, presumably to walk through the hall and then leave via the rear door in order to reach the library from the cemetery.

Michael grimaced. ‘There is nothing like the downfall of an unpopular man to bring out the worst in people. Symon never uses the infirmary as a shortcut to the library, and is only doing so today so that he can gloat over Thomas’s predicament.’

‘I hope no one ever views any illness of mine as an excuse for entertainment and celebration,’ said Bartholomew distastefully.

‘You would have to go a long way before you attained Thomas’s standards,’ replied Michael. He stopped suddenly, and Bartholomew saw that de Lisle was hurrying towards them from the chapter house, his steward at his heels like a faithful hound. He sighed. ‘Damn! I hope he does not detain us for long. I want to question Thomas as soon as possible.’

‘Then you can deal with de Lisle and I will talk to Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, starting to walk away. De Lisle, however, had other ideas, and his haughty summons clearly included the physician, and well as his agent.

‘Any news?’ asked the Bishop immediately. ‘What do you plan to do today to bring about my release from these charges?’

He listened intently while Michael described their findings in the granary and their plans to walk upriver to see whether they could find the place where Glovere and the others were murdered. He seemed disappointed by the lack of progress, while Ralph was openly disgusted by it. He bared his blackened teeth in a sneer of contempt, and Bartholomew turned away, so that he would not have to look at the man. As he did so, he saw Julian slinking into the infirmary, dragging his heels and evidently reluctant to resume his daily duties. Welles was not long in following, although he seemed more enthusiastic than his friend. He waved cheerfully to Bartholomew as he disappeared inside.

De Lisle had no more idea how to speed up the investigation than did Michael, but that did not prevent him from making all manner of impractical suggestions. Michael listened patiently while the Bishop recommended arresting Blanche’s entire household and holding them until one of them confessed, followed by an illogical analysis of the reasons why the missing William was at the heart of everything, aided and abetted by the now-dead Robert.

The interview came to an end when the agitated prelate abruptly spun around and began to stalk towards the cathedral, muttering under his breath that since Michael did not seem able to prove his innocence, he would have to petition the help of St Etheldreda. A handsome ruby ring, he claimed, would be hers if she came to his rescue. Prior Alan overheard as he passed them on his way to the infirmary, and shook his head to show what he thought of the notion that saints could be bribed with baubles. Bartholomew and Michael were about to follow Alan, when the monk became aware that Ralph had fastened his dirty claw on to the fine fabric of his habit.

‘You need to do more than stroll up the river today,’ said the steward unpleasantly, not relinquishing his hold even though Michael glared angrily at him. ‘My Bishop is not a wealthy man, and he cannot afford to stay in Ely much longer. He needs to visit other people, so that they are obliged to house and feed his retinue. You must dismiss this case so he can go about his business before he is bankrupt.’

‘I assure you, I know that,’ said Michael, knocking the filthy hand from his sleeve in distaste. ‘And I am doing the best I can. He – and you – must be patient. The truth is not something you can just summon to appear. It must be teased out carefully, and each fact properly analysed.’

‘Bugger the truth,’ said Ralph vehemently. ‘I said you should dismiss the case, not mess around with irrelevant details.’

Michael regarded the steward disapprovingly. ‘You are an ignorant man, and so you cannot know what you are saying. The Bishop must be totally exonerated from these charges, or they will haunt him for the rest of his life. The verdict must be the truth. Nothing else will do.’

He turned away, but Ralph was not so easily dismissed. He delivered his own little lecture about loyalty and trust, to which Michael listened with barely concealed astonishment at such impudence. When Ralph saw that his homily was not inspiring Michael to go out and declare the Bishop’s innocence by any means necessary, he gave up in disgust and followed his master to the cathedral.

‘He is a nasty little man,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He thinks he is the only one capable of serving de Lisle, just because he has done it for longer than anyone else.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He must be a saint.’

‘Which of them?’ asked Michael. ‘De Lisle for putting up with that horrid little worm, or Ralph for selling his soul to de Lisle? But come, Matt. We cannot stand here all day chatting to whoever happens to come past. We have a killer to catch.’

But before they reached the door of the infirmary, Henry emerged and started to walk towards the cathedral. His shoulders slumped with tiredness, and he grimaced at the brightness of the sun in his eyes.

‘How is Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled that the infirmarian should leave when he had a seriously ill patient to tend.

‘He slipped away in his sleep – between the time you left and a few moments ago,’ said Henry with a catch in his voice. He saw Michael’s face fall, and mistook the monk’s dismay for grief. ‘I am sorry, Michael. Bartholomew and I did all we could, but old, fat men are prone to such attacks, and death is not infrequent. In my experience this appeared to be a serious episode, and I doubt he would ever have recovered his faculties fully. It is better this way.’

‘Damn!’ swore Michael vehemently. ‘If we had not dawdled here, listening to de Lisle and Ralph ranting on about nothing, we might have been able to talk to Thomas before he died.’

‘I do not think he ever woke,’ said Henry wearily. ‘And even though you are my friend, and I know how hard de Lisle is pushing you to prove him innocent of murder, I would not have allowed you to disturb Thomas with potentially distressing questions.’

‘I am surprised he died this morning, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When he survived the night, I thought he was through the worst.’

‘I hoped so, too,’ said Henry. ‘But yesterday’s seizure was long and violent. To be frank, I thought he would slip away in his sleep last night. I was astonished that he still lived when I relieved you of the vigil at dawn.’

‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘Were you with him when he died?’

Henry’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. He tried to speak, but no words came.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I fell asleep,’ said Henry in a muffled whisper. ‘I did not work on the accounts while I watched over him, because I thought I might doze off with the heat and the lack of recent rest, and so I decided to mix Ynys’s medicine instead. But as soon as I sat down, I must have fallen into a slumber. Even if God sees fit to forgive me for this, I will never forgive myself!’

His voice cracked and he put both hands over his face as his shoulders shook with anguish. Michael turned him around and guided him through the hall, where he sat the distraught infirmarian down in his workshop. The old men slept fitfully, although Roger seemed to be watching what was happening. In the chamber at the far end of the hall, Bartholomew could see Prior Alan kneeling at the bed where Thomas lay. Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew’s wineskin still lay on the table, its contents untouched, so he poured some into a goblet and urged Henry to drink. After a few moments, Henry regained control of himself. His shuddering sobs subsided, and he was able to give them a wan smile.

‘I am sorry. I hate to lose a patient. It is not why I became a physician.’

‘You cannot blame yourself for falling asleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew you were exhausted; I should not have left you.’

‘I wish you had not,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I hope to God that poor Thomas did not wake to find he was alone in his last few moments of life.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

‘I sat here and began to grind the cloves,’ continued Henry unsteadily, ‘and the next thing I knew was that my head was on the table and Prior Alan was shaking my shoulder, asking whether I was unwell. I leapt to my feet and ran to Thomas, lest he had been calling for me, but he was dead. I hope it was a peaceful end.’

Bartholomew patted his shoulder, then went to look at the sheeted form that lay in Henry’s bed. While Alan continued to pray, and Henry and Michael looked on, Bartholomew pulled back the cover, and saw the still features of the sub-prior beneath, layers of fat already waxy white as they rippled away from his face. Bartholomew thought Henry’s diagnosis had been right, and the sub-prior had indeed slipped away in his sleep. But his stay in Ely had made him cautious: he slipped one hand under the back of Thomas’s neck and then withdrew it in alarm. Something cold and metallic was there.

Alan leapt to his feet in horror when Bartholomew tugged the inert figure on to its side, revealing the short blade that protruded from the base of its neck. The bed-covers below were stained red, and when Bartholomew touched the knife he found it was firm and unyielding under his fingers. Someone had forced it in very hard. However, there was no grazing of Thomas’s ears or cheeks, because the killer had not needed to secure his victim this time: Thomas had been powerless to defend himself.

‘No!’ cried Henry at the top of his voice. In the hall, the old men started to call out, frightened by the sudden clamour in their usually serene environment. ‘Not in my infirmary!’

‘My God!’ breathed Alan, crossing himself slowly. ‘My God!’

‘Well,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes. ‘Our killer is growing bold. Now he is taking his victims in broad daylight inside the priory itself, while Henry was only a short distance away.’

‘But I saw no one,’ whispered Henry. ‘I do not know how long I slept, but it could not have been more than a few moments. What have I done?’

‘You have done nothing,’ said Alan grimly. ‘It is not you who is prowling around killing sick men as they sleep.’

‘I shall never forgive myself!’ whispered Henry, his face as white as snow. ‘If I had not been so weak, I would have stayed awake and this would never have happened.’

‘You are assuming you would have been able to prevent it,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Your exhaustion probably saved your life, because the murderer is a ruthless man who would have killed you, too. You would not have been able to save Thomas, even if you had been awake.’

‘And I would have had a good deal more to grieve about,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Thomas was not one of Ely’s better monks, but you are. The priory would have lost a far greater prize in you than in Thomas.’

‘No!’ objected Henry, distressed. ‘You cannot say such things! Thomas occasionally gave me wine from his own cellars for my patients. He was not all bad.’

‘And why did he do that?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Because it was past its best and he could not bring himself to pour it down the drain?’

Henry swallowed miserably. ‘That is not the point. He thought of the sick when he had supplies to share. But I cannot believe this has happened. I heard nothing and saw nothing.’

‘I am sure you did not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘This killer is too good to leave witnesses or clues.’