A Summer of Discontent

Chapter 8

While Henry went to calm his elderly patients, and Alan redoubled the fervour of his prayers over Thomas’s bloated corpse, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the infirmary chapel, their thoughts in turmoil. They talked in low voices, so that no one could hear.

‘We were virtually present when this happened,’ whispered Michael, his green eyes huge in his white face. ‘This monster took his fifth victim while we were right outside the building!’

‘I wonder whether we saw him,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to recall what he had seen as they had lingered with de Lisle and Ralph in the Dark Cloister. ‘I spotted Symon, then Julian, then Welles and finally Alan. What about you?’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘No killer would have gone about his grisly business knowing we had actually watched him enter the hospital. He would have crept in through the back door, not through the Dark Cloister.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He killed Robert and carried the body to the Monks’ Hythe in broad daylight. He is not a timid fellow, and he seems oblivious of the fact that he might be caught.’

‘There is a difference this time, though,’ said Michael, staring down the hall to where Thomas’s mammoth form could just be seen, swathed in a white sheet, with Alan kneeling next to it. ‘He left the murder weapon. He did not do that with the others. That must help us.’

Bartholomew had noticed. ‘It was the paring knife I saw earlier, when Henry, Julian and Welles were preparing the inmates’ breakfasts. It disappeared briefly, and I assumed Julian had stolen it, but it had been replaced on the workbench before we left for the refectory.’

‘Julian,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘We have always agreed he was a good suspect. He has a fascination with sharp objects, and now you say you saw him in possession of the murder weapon not an hour before this crime was committed.’

‘The only problem with that notion is that the paring knife is not what killed the other victims.’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Because the injury on Thomas is a different shape. You may recall I told you that the others’ wounds were made with something long and thin, perhaps rather like a nail.’

‘So, what are you saying? That Julian killed Thomas, but not Glovere, Chaloner, Haywarde and Robert?’

Bartholomew spread his hands. ‘Julian saw Robert’s corpse, if not the others, and may have overheard us discussing how these men were killed. It is not wholly beyond the realm of possibility that he wanted to try it out for himself, and used the much-detested sub-prior for his experiment.’

‘Should we arrest him, then?’

Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘The problem with doing that is that we have no incontrovertible proof that he is the killer. Do not forget that we also saw Symon enter the infirmary. In fact, the librarian was the first of a number of people to wander in, and he would have had plenty of time to kill his sub-prior – he was all alone with him while Henry slept and before Julian and Welles arrived for work. He has been lurking near Thomas’s sickbed all day, and he also was in the workroom when I first noticed the presence of that paring knife.’

‘Welles?’ suggested Michael. ‘What about him as our cunning criminal?’ He rubbed his face hard. ‘Lord, Matt! What am I saying? Welles is a nice lad – cheerful and hardworking. Why would he suddenly turn killer?’

‘Perhaps some of Julian’s personality wore off on him. It is not inconceivable that spending day after day in company like that may have a polluting effect.’

‘There is Alan, too,’ said Michael softly, looking over at the Prior, who was shifting uncomfortably next to Thomas, finding the stone floor hard on his knees. ‘He was the last person to enter the hospital, and the one who woke Henry. We must not leave him off our list of suspects.’

‘He was the last one you saw enter the hospital,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘You said yourself that the culprit may have reached Thomas by going through the back door.’

‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, disheartened. ‘We are no further forward now than we were before this maniac claimed a fifth soul to add to his collection. We have another victim who was disliked by most people who knew him, and we have a knife conveniently available. How am I supposed to discover who did this, when virtually anyone in the entire monastery could be responsible?’

‘Not just in the monastery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are townsfolk who may have heard of Thomas’s vulnerable state, too. There are at least a hundred layfolk employed here – one of them may be the killer, or may have helped the killer gain access to Thomas. And do not forget that the Outer Hostry is bulging at the seams with visitors, too.’

He stopped speaking when Alan entered the chapel, his sandalled feet tapping softly on the worn flagstones. The Prior genuflected in front of the altar, and gazed at it for a moment, his thin face haggard.

‘Tell us what happened, exactly,’ said Michael, watching him. ‘Did you see Thomas dead and go to rouse the slumbering Henry?’

‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Alan, seeming appalled by that notion. ‘I glimpsed Thomas lying still and silent through the open door of his chamber, but assumed he was sleeping. I was actually looking for Henry – to ask him for a report on Thomas’s health. When I saw Henry dozing in the room next door, I went to shake his shoulder. I did not think he had fallen asleep intentionally, and imagined he would prefer to be awake when Thomas was so ill.’

‘It is that cure for wrinkles you promised Bishop Northburgh,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Henry is working feverishly on it, and it is too much for him with his other duties, too.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ acknowledged Alan sheepishly. ‘I thought he could manage – he is an excellent physician, after all. Anyway, I touched him on the shoulder and he jolted upright, looking as confused and startled as a scalded cat. He sat for a moment blinking and staring, then seemed to recall that he was supposed to be caring for a sick patient. He all but shoved me out of the way in his haste to reach the next room. It was clear he had been dozing for some time.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Because it took him a few moments to gather his wits once you had woken him?’

‘Because there was a sizeable puddle of drool on the table, where his head had rested,’ replied Alan, rather proud of his powers of observation. ‘It is still there, actually. You know how that happens when you doze heavily in an awkward position.’

‘I do not,’ said Michael primly. ‘I never drool. But what happened after that?’

‘Henry fussed around with Thomas’s bedclothes for a moment, and wiped his face with a cloth. Then it seemed to occur to him that all was not well. He held a glass in front of Thomas’s mouth, then put his ear to Thomas’s chest.’

‘And Thomas was dead,’ concluded Michael.

‘But still warm to the touch. Henry told me that was because Thomas had only just died, combined with the facts that he has a large body for retaining heat, and because the weather is hot.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Those factors would combine in making a corpse cool more slowly.’

‘I started to pray,’ continued Alan. ‘There was no reason to assume Thomas had not slipped away in his sleep at that point. Meanwhile, poor Henry stumbled to the door for some fresh air. He hates to lose a patient. Then you came in.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the sickroom that you noticed?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Anything that might suggest the identity of the killer?’

Alan shook his head. ‘I saw Symon enter the infirmary a little while before I did; you might want to ask him whether he saw anything strange. You can also question Julian and Welles: they were also in the vicinity.’

‘We shall,’ determined Michael. He rubbed his hands across his flabby cheeks, making a rasping sound that was loud in the peaceful chapel. He was about to add something else when there was a commotion in the hall, and he poked his head around the door to see that de Lisle had arrived, demanding to know what had happened. It seemed that bad news spread quickly.

‘This will reflect badly on me,’ the Bishop declared, marching into the chapel and addressing his agent. ‘People will say that I had the sub-prior murdered, as well as a couple of peasants and the servant of a woman I detest.’

‘And that would never do,’ said Alan, watching de Lisle with some dislike. Bartholomew noted that the prelate was unusually mercurial in his moods. The previous day, many people had been impressed by his graciousness and poise, and by his genuine compassion for Robert, but now he was back to the selfishness that made him so unpopular. It was all very well for Michael to say he found his Bishop remarkable, but for a good part of the time the Bishop was remarkable only for his arrogance, self-interest and ambition.

‘People will say no such thing about you,’ said Michael soothingly, if probably untruthfully. ‘If anything, they will begin to see that you had nothing to do with the death of Glovere, because you have no reason to wish any of these other people harm.’

‘As I told you, not an hour ago, I want this criminal caught,’ shouted de Lisle furiously. ‘It is bad enough being accused of murder, without the people in my See being dispatched by some monster who feels it incumbent on himself to slaughter monks in broad daylight on holy ground.’

‘We were–’ began Michael.

‘You have always been excellent at solving this kind of mystery,’ snapped de Lisle, pacing back and forth. ‘Yet, when the outcome is important to me personally, you seem to be dragging your heels.’

‘I am doing nothing of the kind,’ said Michael, his eyes dangerously cold. ‘You know very well that I have been working hard. This case is just more complicated than I anticipated, that is all. I told you all this earlier.’

De Lisle sensed that he had overstepped the mark, and that if he wanted Michael’s continued services then he would need to adopt a more conciliatory attitude. Bartholomew supposed the prelate was frustrated because Michael was the only person who could clear his name to everyone’s satisfaction. Bishop Northburgh and Canon Stretton were worse than useless; Michael was his only hope. De Lisle’s face softened, and he laid an apologetic arm across the monk’s shoulders.

‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he said. ‘I am not myself today. That wretched Blanche has been aiming to damage me and my reputation ever since I had the misfortune to cross her path twenty-five years ago. Of course, Tysilia is at the heart of it.’

‘Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into blurting an interruption.

‘She is my niece,’ said the Bishop, smiling fondly. ‘But, of course, you know her from that business that took you to St Radegund’s Convent earlier this year.’

Bartholomew knew that Tysilia was far more closely related to the prelate than that, although how someone as brazenly dim-witted as Tysilia could be the offspring of the wily Thomas de Lisle was completely beyond Bartholomew’s comprehension.

‘Why would she be at the heart of your quarrel with Blanche?’ he asked curiously.

The Bishop shot him a look that indicated that if he could not use his imagination, then he should not speak. The physician glanced at Michael, who obliged him with an almost imperceptible wink. Bartholomew’s mind whirled. Were they saying that the mother of Tysilia was Lady Blanche, and that the first meeting of churchman and noblewoman had resulted in something more permanent than a nodding acquaintance? Michael saw the understanding dawn in his friend’s eyes, and smiled to show that those suppositions were correct. Bartholomew stared down at his feet, so he would not have to look at de Lisle.

‘I do not understand what you are talking about,’ said the less worldly Alan. ‘Why should your niece be at the root of your problems with Blanche?’

‘Blanche foisted the child on me a long time ago,’ said de Lisle, walking to the window to gaze out across the graveyard. ‘I was an innocent young man then, and when Blanche came to me with an unwanted child and asked me to give it a home, I obliged. I felt sorry for it.’

‘But why should she ask you such a thing?’ pressed Alan, failing to put together the clues that stared him in the face – although Bartholomew was certain the Bishop would be content if the Prior remained blissfully ignorant. ‘You were a churchman, not a landowner with a family of your own. You seem an odd choice of guardian to me.’

‘I imagine she detected my kind heart, and decided to use it to her advantage,’ said de Lisle smoothly. ‘She was about to be married to the Earl of Lancaster, and could hardly present him with a recently born child from an illicit liaison. I helped a woman in distress, and my act of charity has plagued me ever since.’

‘I see,’ said Alan, although his eyes remained puzzled. ‘She feels guilty about abandoning the child, and feels anger because she is in your debt. It is often the way that a kindness eventually produces resentment on the part of the beneficiary. It is one of the reasons why I am reluctant to be overly indulgent to my peasants.’

‘It is hardly the same–’ began Bartholomew, who thought Alan could afford to be a little more generous in that direction. Then men like Leycestre would not be plotting a rebellion.

De Lisle cut him off. ‘Suffice to say that Blanche will do all in her power to harm me. It is most unjust.’

‘It is unjust,’ agreed Alan. ‘A selfless act should never culminate in merciless persecution.’

‘Let us return to these murders,’ said de Lisle, who at least had the grace to be disconcerted by Alan’s misguided sympathy. ‘You must arrest this killer, Michael. And the sooner the better. We shall meet again this time tomorrow, when I want to hear that the wretched man is in a prison cell.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael. ‘This morning we will speak again to Henry, Symon, Welles and Julian.’ His glance at Alan implied that the Prior should not consider himself immune to further investigation, either. ‘And I will ask whether any of my brethren recognise that book of hours and the chalice we retrieved from the granary yesterday.’

‘Ask about those gold coins, too,’ suggested Alan. ‘I would like to know how they got from the priory coffers to a sack in the storehouse. They are definitely ours, because I recognise one or two irregularities in their minting.’

‘But it is obvious why they were in the granary and who put them there,’ stated de Lisle uncompromisingly. ‘William demanded payments for various expenses he claimed he had incurred as hosteller, then secreted the coins away for his own use.’

‘Then why did he not take them with him when he fled?’ asked Bartholomew, sure the explanation was not this simple.

De Lisle did not like his opinions challenged. ‘Perhaps he forgot them. Or perhaps he intends to collect them later.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘William will not return to the priory he abandoned in such mysterious circumstances. And I doubt whether a well-organised and efficient man like him would have forgotten the small fortune carefully stashed away.’

‘Then perhaps he did not have room in his saddlebags for all his possessions,’ said de Lisle, becoming exasperated. ‘He seems to have taken virtually everything else he owned.’

‘He does not own much anyway,’ said Alan. ‘Like me, he prefers to live a simple life, and has not accumulated a lot of personal goods.’

Bartholomew glanced at the rings on Alan’s hands, and recalled the rugs and wall-hangings that decorated his chamber, before turning his attention back to de Lisle. ‘I do not think that William would take a spare habit and a clean undershirt, but leave a fortune in gold because there was no room for it. He would dispense with the clothes and take the gold instead.’

De Lisle glowered at him. ‘Well, you tell us what happened, then. You repudiate anything I suggest, so you explain how William’s gold came to be in the storehouse, apparently abandoned.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew. He saw de Lisle’s triumphant expression. ‘But I do not accept any of your reasons, either. Perhaps William packed his possessions, then realised that he did not have time to retrieve the granary gold. Perhaps Thomas was near the barn, receiving or delivering packages from unknown benefactors, and William was unable to enter it without being seen.’

‘He would have waited,’ said de Lisle immediately, determined that Bartholomew’s explanations should not escape criticism either.

‘Perhaps he did not have time,’ suggested Michael. ‘But Matt is right: we are missing an important piece of this puzzle regarding William and his coins. When we know how they came from William’s hands into the granary sack, I suspect we shall be on our way to solving that particular mystery. And Alan is right, too: William really does not own much.’

Bartholomew and de Lisle both regarded him doubtfully.

‘He is a Benedictine,’ said de Lisle eventually.

Michael glared. ‘Not all of us flagrantly dispense with the rule of poverty, you know. And William, for all his faults, is a man who is genuinely uninterested in material wealth.’

‘Robert was very interested in it, though,’ said Alan. ‘It pains me to tell you that since his death I have uncovered more than enough evidence to demonstrate that he was stealing from the priory. But I do not believe that William is dishonest.’

‘How do you explain Thomas’s book being in company with William’s money?’ demanded de Lisle of Bartholomew, ignoring Alan now that he had focused on someone to argue with. ‘And where did that chalice come from? Was it stolen from a church? I hope it was not one in my See.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask the other monks, to see whether any of them recognise it. Did you, Father Prior?’

‘I did not,’ said Alan. ‘But, as you know, I was a goldsmith before I took the cowl, and I appreciate fine work. That chalice is exquisite. Whoever owns it should be proud.’

‘What about the book?’ asked Michael.

‘Again, it shows excellent workmanship, but I have never seen it before.’

‘I wonder if it is from the library,’ mused Bartholomew.

Alan smiled apologetically. ‘Unfortunately, our librarian’s records are poor in some areas, and just because something is not listed does not mean we do not possess it. It could well be ours.’

‘Symon de Banneham,’ said de Lisle heavily. ‘Why you put a fellow like that in charge of your precious tomes is beyond my understanding. The man can lay his hands on nothing I ask for, and invariably hides in the latrines when he thinks someone might want to gain access to his territory.’

‘But he takes good care of our texts,’ argued Alan defensively.

‘Actually, he does not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He only likes the ones that sit neatly on shelves.’

‘Can none of your other brethren identify that book Michael found in the granary?’ asked de Lisle of Alan, impatient with the digression. ‘It is a beautiful thing, and surely one of them must have come across it in his studies.’

‘Symon tends to restrict our access to the library, too,’ confessed Alan uneasily. ‘He says there are too many delicate volumes that might be damaged by the casual or careless reader.’

‘What a crime!’ said Michael fervently. ‘Monks should be encouraged to study, not barred from it by the likes of Brother Symon.’

‘I would send them to you in Cambridge, if any of the community revealed an academic bent,’ said Alan mildly. ‘But Thomas told me that no one warranted that sort of treatment.’

‘That is because Thomas was illiterate,’ said de Lisle bluntly. ‘He could barely write his own name, and how he managed the business of sub-prior is totally beyond me. I suppose he had scribes to work for him. But still, some good will come of this. You can now appoint a good man as your deputy.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Alan in alarm, as though fearful that he would not be able to meet such a challenge.

‘We should make a start, before anyone else dies,’ said Michael, raising his large arms in a weary stretch. ‘I will ask the brethren about these treasures.’

‘I am not sure I fully understood everything that passed in there,’ said Bartholomew, walking quickly to catch up with Michael, who was heading for the refectory, where he knew the monks would be massing. It was approaching the time for the midday meal, and black-robed figures were already emerging from every nook and cranny. The deaths of Robert and Thomas, and the mysterious absence of William, were apparently not matters that warranted any loss of appetite for or devotion to the priory’s rich fare for most of the brethren.

Michael chortled at his friend’s confusion. ‘You understood a good deal more than Alan did. What do you think you missed?’

‘Are we to understand that the basis of this feud between de Lisle and Blanche is an ancient love affair that turned sour?’

Michael chuckled a second time. ‘It did more than turn sour, Matt: it produced Tysilia. Apparently, Blanche did all she could to rid herself of the brat before she married the Earl of Lancaster, but nothing worked. She produced a baby girl, despite her best attempts not to do so.’

‘I wonder if those attempts resulted in the impairment of Tysilia’s mind,’ mused Bartholomew, intrigued by the possibility. ‘It would certainly explain why she is not normal.’

‘Blanche foisted the child on de Lisle as soon as she could, then went about her business with the Earl.’

‘And the Earl did not notice that his allegedly virgin wife had recently been delivered of a child?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘I know that most courtiers dwell in worlds of their own, and that their views of reality are somewhat different from those of the rest of us, but it would be astonishing if that little detail slipped past him.’

‘The union between the Earl and Blanche produced no heirs,’ replied Michael ambiguously, giving Bartholomew a meaningful wink. ‘And we know that was no fault of Blanche’s, given that she was able to produce healthy babies for amorous clerics.’

‘You think she did not produce any heirs for Lancaster because he discovered she had already provided someone else with one?’

Michael sighed, impatient with his slow wits. ‘No. You must remember that Lancaster was a member of the court of Edward the Second, and that Edward preferred men to women. It is generally believed that Lancaster never consummated his marriage with Blanche. When he died of the plague, all his possessions went to his sister. That partly explains Blanche’s bitterness.’

‘The fact that her marriage was unconsummated, that she lost her husband to the pestilence, or that she lost her possessions to her sister-in-law?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘The last, of course,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Blanche went from being the wife of one of the richest landowners in the country to being a widow with little property of her own – and that is why what she does own is important to her. De Lisle should not have set fire to her cottages at Colne.’

‘Well, all this is irrelevant anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What the Duchess did with the Bishop more than two decades ago can hardly have any bearing on this case.’

‘Never dismiss anything, Matt,’ lectured Michael. ‘Who knows where this trail of murders may lead us? But the cooks are only just carrying the food from the kitchens, so it will be some time before it is ready for eating. Walk with me to the cathedral.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. A long queue was forming outside the refectory, and Michael was usually not a man who walked away from a meal that was about to be served.

‘Because I want to think more about Thomas’s death before we tackle any suspects. And because I want to see whether pilgrims are still being charged three pennies for access to St Etheldreda’s shrine. It was Robert’s idea, and I was wondering whether his death has resulted in the lifting of the levy.’

‘It is grotesque,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘I know it is customary for pilgrims to leave gifts at shrines, but they are for the saint, not for the monks who tend them. And I have never heard of a fixed fee imposed before.’

‘Nor me,’ said Michael. ‘I was surprised that Alan allowed it. But then I saw the amount of money the priory makes from the levy, and I suppose natural greed stepped in. Alan is a good man, but he is blind to everything when it comes to financing his buildings.’

They entered the cloister, where the shade and coldness of stone was a welcome pleasure after the heat of the noonday sun. Delicate tracery cast intricate patterns of shadow and light on the flagstones, while in the centre of the courtyard the gurgle of water from the fountain that supplied the lavatorium was a restful and pleasing sound. A dove cooed on the tiled roof above, and Bartholomew caught the scent of baking bread wafting from the kitchens. It seemed inconceivable that murder should have entered such a haven of tranquillity and beauty.

‘You know, Matt, even our exalted ringside view of Thomas’s murder has not left us with any decent clues.’ Michael sounded exasperated and dispirited.

Bartholomew understood how he felt. ‘Although we saw Alan, Symon, Welles and Julian enter the infirmary via the Dark Cloister, anyone else could have entered through the rear door, knowing that we were being detained by an irate prelate and his grubby steward.’

‘Well, at least we know de Lisle is innocent of Thomas’s murder. He was with us when Thomas died, and so could not possibly be the culprit.’

‘That is not necessarily true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘We have no idea when Thomas died. For all we know, Henry could have dropped off to sleep the moment we left for the refectory, leaving all of breakfast time free for the killer to strike. De Lisle may have killed him while we ate, then returned later to the Dark Cloister to berate you for sluggish investigating.’

‘So, it may be wholly irrelevant that we saw various monks enter the infirmary?’ asked Michael despondently.

‘Yes. Thomas’s breathing was shallow – so shallow that Henry was obliged to fetch a glass to see if he lived, while I had to press my ear against his chest at least twice during the night. A casual glance would not tell anyone whether he was dead or alive, and so we cannot read anything into the fact that Symon, Alan, and the novices failed to raise the alarm.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I was hoping we might be able to eliminate at least someone from our list of suspects.’

‘We can. Henry.’

‘He was never on my list,’ said Michael. ‘Henry is no killer. But why are you suddenly so sure? I would have thought he was suspect in your eyes because he was alone with Thomas for a good part of the night and this morning.’

‘True. But if Henry were the killer, he would have chosen a time when he would not be the obvious suspect.’

‘So, what convinces you of his innocence now?’

‘The saliva Alan mentioned, basically. Drooling often occurs when someone is in a particularly deep sleep or an awkward position – and Henry was in both. Also, the amount of saliva present on the desk suggests that Henry was dozing for some time. It is not the kind of detail anyone would think to fabricate – even a cunning fellow like our killer. I might have suggested that Henry feigned sleep in order to excuse his presence in the infirmary when Thomas was murdered. But the drool is a fairly iron-clad alibi.’

‘Thomas was definitely alive after prime – we have your testimony for that. Henry would not have needed to risk dispatching Thomas this morning, with all these visitors traipsing in and out of the infirmary, when he could have selected a safer time at his leisure.’

‘He probably would not have stabbed Thomas, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘There are other ways to kill that are far easier to conceal, not to mention the fact that no physician likes to lose a patient in his own hospital.’

‘We will ask the old men whether they saw anything,’ said Michael. ‘They will know whether Henry was asleep or prowling around.’

‘Then you had better hope Roger was awake. You will not get much from any of the others. Another thing you need to bear in mind is that Thomas’s murder may have been someone copying the killer’s methods. Remember how I said I thought Julian might well want to test how it worked? Even if we solve Thomas’s murder, it may not give us the identity of the man who killed the others.’

Michael swore softly under his breath.

The cloisters ended in the beautiful carved door that opened into the cathedral. It was silent inside the great building, with no monastic offices in progress, and the nave abandoned by the parishioners of Holy Cross. Sunlight created patterns in the dust of the clerestory high above, and the blind eyes of saints gazed at them from every direction, as if disturbed by the footsteps that echoed as Bartholomew and Michael walked.

In contrast to the rest of the cathedral, the area surrounding St Etheldreda’s shrine was a hive of activity. People clustered around it, some kneeling, some standing, and prayers of all kinds were being spoken. Some pilgrims were awkward and self-conscious, whispering their entreaties almost furtively, as if they imagined that the great saint would never bother to listen to them and that their mere presence was presumptuous. Others had no such qualms, and their prayers were more akin to demands, often delivered with ultimatums.

De Lisle’s were among the latter. He knelt on a velvet cushion at the shrine’s head, holding the jewelled ring that he promised would be St Etheldreda’s if she would only free him from his predicament. Evidently, the deal was to be payment on delivery, because the Bishop replaced it on his finger before leaving.

Also among the multicoloured throng that surrounded the tomb was Guido, holding his gold hat awkwardly in his hands. Next to him Eulalia was kneeling on the floor with her hands pressed together in front of her and her large dark eyes fixed solemnly on the saint’s wooden coffin. After a few moments, she rose and walked away, her brother at her side. When she saw Bartholomew her eyes lit with pleasure.

‘I did not expect to see you today,’ she said, coming towards him with a smile. ‘I thought you would be busy investigating the death of the almoner.’

‘We are,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But first, we wanted to see whether Robert’s untimely demise has resulted in the lifting of the toll on the shrine.’

Eulalia nodded. ‘It happened at dawn this morning – Brother Henry petitioned Prior Alan to abolish the charge at prime. Henry is a good man. I thought it would take weeks for something like this to come about, but he had it all arranged in a trice. Three pennies was a lot for many people to pay, and it is good to come here as often as we like with no thought for the cost.’

‘And we need St Etheldreda at the moment,’ added Guido pugnaciously. ‘People keep accusing us of these burglaries, so I told her that she had better tell whoever is spreading these lies to stop. If she does not, then I will find out myself, and ensure that the culprit never utters another lie again.’ His face was ugly with anger.

Eulalia sighed in exasperation. ‘If you put our request like that, it would serve us right if she does not answer.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘There have now been at least ten burglaries in the city, and a lot of money has gone missing. I admit that some members of our group occasionally take a chicken or catch a fish when times are hard, but we do not arrive in a town and systematically burgle every house in it.’

‘It would be obvious it was us, if we did that,’ added Guido for Bartholomew’s benefit, just in case he had not understood. ‘And we are not stupid.’

‘You have not collected your black resin yet,’ said Eulalia, smiling shyly at Bartholomew. ‘It is waiting for you any time you want it.’

‘I cannot come today,’ said Michael, as though the offer were being made to him. ‘I am busy. But perhaps we could manage tomorrow. Keep a pot of stew bubbling over the fire, just in case. I will provide some wine, and we will drink a toast to the removal of Robert and his nasty fees.’

‘You live dangerously, Brother,’ said Eulalia, laughing at the way the monk had inveigled himself an invitation. ‘I do not think you should be seen celebrating the deaths of your fellows, no matter how much you disliked them.’

She walked away, the cloth of her skirt swinging around her fine ankles. Next to her, Guido looked like an ape, with his thick arms and slightly stooped stance. Bartholomew wondered how their mother could have produced two such different offspring, but supposed it was easy enough if there were different fathers. He was so engrossed in watching Eulalia that Michael had to nudge him hard in the ribs to gain his attention.

‘I said look at Father John,’ whispered the monk crossly. ‘It seems that the lifting of the toll has resulted in all manner of new supplicants.’

Bartholomew looked to where the monk was pointing. At the rear of the shrine, in a place where they probably imagined they were invisible to the casual observer, John and Leycestre were involved in one of their low-voiced discussions. Bartholomew looked around for Leycestre’s nephews, and, sure enough, spotted them near the door, almost as though they were keeping guard. They were obviously unconcerned by the possibility that someone might enter from the priory side of the cathedral – or perhaps it was only townsfolk in whom they were interested.

‘They are always muttering to each other,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘John claims he wants nothing to do with the rebellion-in-the-making, but he seems to spend a lot of time in conversation with Leycestre, who seems able to talk about nothing else. I think John is involved a good deal more deeply than he would have us believe – especially since Leycestre’s nephews seem to think these chats warrant privacy. Also, John ordered me not to speak to Leycestre when I first met him. He thought I might be a spy for the King.’

Michael agreed. ‘If you were, and if Leycestre told you exactly what he thinks of the local landowners, then Leycestre would be deemed guilty of treason. He would name his accomplices and John would hang with him.’

Bartholomew turned away from the seditious plotting in the corner. ‘We have done what we came to do, Brother. You will miss your meal if we wait here much longer.’

Michael started to follow him away, but footsteps striding resolutely down the nave caught his attention. As quick as lightning, he darted behind a pillar, so that Bartholomew suddenly found himself alone. Then he saw that the person who walked with such purpose was Tysilia, with Ralph scurrying in her wake. The steward did not seem pleased by the task of escort, and his red face and harried expression indicated that he was finding it a great deal of work.

‘I have three pennies,’ Tysilia announced happily, as she drew close enough to speak to Bartholomew. ‘I am going to pray to the saint.’

‘You no longer need your pennies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Robert is dead, and the levy was his idea.’

‘I shall buy a new dress, then,’ she said, apparently unaware that she would need a good deal more than three grubby coins for that sort of item.

Next to her, Ralph sighed impatiently. ‘Hurry up, Tysilia. You said your prayers would only take a few moments, but we have been out for more than an hour and we have not even reached the shrine yet.’

‘I like to walk around the town,’ said Tysilia, unperturbed by Ralph’s bad temper. ‘I might meet Brother Michael there. Where is he, by the way?’ She began to look around eagerly, and Bartholomew saw a shadow easing further behind the stout pillar.

‘Ready for some food, I imagine,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously. ‘I told you he is never available at mealtimes.’

‘Yes, I suppose he would not like to miss his midday meal,’ said Tysilia thoughtfully. ‘He is a little fat, although it just lends him more charm, do you not think, Ralph?’

‘Oh, yes. Very charming,’ growled Ralph irritably. ‘Now, pray at this damned shrine, and then let us go home. I promised the Bishop I would have you back ages ago.’

‘I am going to ask St Earthdigger to give him to me,’ she said confidentially to Bartholomew, making no attempt to obey Ralph.

‘St Etheldreda,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And to give you who?’

‘Brother Michael, of course,’ said Tysilia. ‘I shall pray to the saint to let me have him. I am sure she will oblige. After all, Michael is a monk, and so he is a holy man. The saint will want to make a holy man happy.’

‘I do not think it works like that,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh. ‘And Michael is a Benedictine. That means women are forbidden to him.’

‘I heard that,’ said Tysilia confidentially. ‘Ralph explained it to me. It all sounds very silly, and it will not apply to me, anyway. I am not an ordinary woman. I am special. My uncle told me so, and he is a bishop, so he must be right.’

‘Come on,’ said Ralph, finally losing patience and taking her arm to drag her roughly towards the shrine. She continued to chatter as he led her away, and Michael stepped out from his pillar with a sigh of relief. She was informing Ralph – and anyone else who happened to be within a mile of her – that Blanche wore a wig, and that her front teeth were tied in place each morning with two small pieces of twine.

‘That was close,’ said Michael, puffing out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Come on, Matt. We will have to walk around the back of the building, to make sure she does not see us on our way out. It would be terrible to be accosted by her in a public place like this, and I do not think Ralph is strong enough to keep her under control.’

They walked briskly to the back of the cathedral, where the rope had been stretched between two stools as a frail barrier to prevent people from entering the north-west transept. Fresh rubble on the floor indicated that there had been another recent fall. Bartholomew glanced up and saw that an angel he had observed a few days before was leaning at an even more precarious angle, and that one or two gargoyles looked as though the merest breath would be sufficient to send them crashing to the ground below. Even as they watched, a shower of plaster and a few larger flakes drifted downwards, like a sudden flurry of snow.

‘Come on, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the monk away. ‘It is not safe here.’

‘You are right!’ said Michael, casting a nervous glance back to St Etheldreda’s shrine.

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Henry, Symon, Welles, Julian and the old men, to see whether anyone could recall any small detail about the death of Thomas that might allow them to trace the killer. However, Michael declined to do anything until he had eaten, claiming that the near encounter with Tysilia had unsettled him, and that he needed food to calm his nerves. It was still early, and the brethren milled around the refectory door, waiting for it to open. Looking critically at them, Bartholomew decided that a missed meal would do many of them a lot of good: Benedictines were a contemplative Order, and sitting around thinking about God did little for their waistlines. Because Ely was a wealthy cathedral-priory with a large number of servants and lay-brothers, few of the brethren were obliged to work in the fields, except as penance, and the effects of lack of exercise and a surfeit of rich food was very apparent.

Delicious smells emanated from behind the doors – freshly baked bread, roasted parsnips, fish (because it was Friday) and the obligatory pea pottage. These rich aromas mingled pleasantly with the scents of summer, and mown grass, flowers and warm earth reminded Bartholomew of the abbey school he had attended in Peterborough.

Henry was not among the men who thronged impatiently outside the refectory. The novices were there, however, and Julian, Welles and Bukton stood chatting together nearby. Julian informed Bartholomew that the infirmarian was taking his meal with Roger, because the old man had expressed a desire for company.

‘I do not suppose it crossed your mind to dine with him?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

Julian shook his head vehemently. ‘It did not! I prefer eating here, with men of my own age. I have no wish to feed with dribbling ancients, who ask me to slice up their peas every few moments. But it occurred to Henry, and he offered my services to Roger. I was not pleased, I can tell you!’

‘I am sure you were not,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘So what are you doing here, if you are supposed to be with Roger?’

‘Roger said he would prefer Henry to me, actually,’ said Julian, looking away, uninterested by the discussion. ‘I cannot imagine why. All Henry wants to talk about is medicine, and what a good thing it is to make people well again. Boring!’

‘Brother Henry is the best man in the priory,’ declared Welles hotly, fists clenching. ‘He is kind and sweet-tempered, and you have no right to say unpleasant things about him!’

‘I agree,’ said Bukton, equally angry. ‘Henry cured me when I had marsh ague last year. He is like a father to us novices, so just watch what you say about him.’

Sensibly, Julian said no more on the matter. Bartholomew suspected that if he had, he might well have been punched. In a priory full of unkind men, the gentle Henry provided a much-needed haven and he was loved for it. Bartholomew glanced at Michael and saw that he entirely concurred with the novices’ sentiments, and that he also owed a debt of gratitude to the man who had befriended him in his youth.

‘I saw you two slipping into the infirmary after breakfast this morning,’ Michael remarked casually to Julian and Welles.

‘So?’ demanded Julian insolently. ‘We work in the infirmary – unfortunately. We are supposed to be there.’

‘They dallied in the refectory after breakfast,’ said Bukton helpfully. ‘In the end, Prior Alan made them go to work.’

Julian shot him an unpleasant look for his tale-telling, then turned to Michael. ‘I did not kill Thomas, if that is what you are thinking. I did not even go into the chamber where he was resting. I went straight to the workshop and started my chores.’

Bartholomew glanced at the faces of Julian’s fellow novices and saw a gamut of emotions there. Some seemed impressed that Julian should be under suspicion for removing a much-detested member of the community; others appeared to be uneasy at the thought that Julian might commit such a crime.

‘I did not kill him, either,’ said Welles, worried that Julian’s denial might result in the accusation passing to him. ‘I did not stay in the hospital – I collected a basket and then left through the other door to buy fruit in the marketplace.’

‘That should be easy to check,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We can ask the lay-brother on gate duty when he saw him.’

Welles lost some colour from his face and swallowed nervously. ‘But he was not there. I suppose he was either dozing or had gone to the latrines. I let myself out.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, sounding interested. ‘How convenient. What about when you came back?’

‘The same,’ replied Welles, a curious mixture of defiant and fearful. ‘He will deny leaving his post, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael expressionlessly. He glanced around, and his eyes lit on another monk in the milling throng awaiting dinner. The novices were temporarily forgotten. ‘Brother Symon! Just the man I wanted to see.’

‘It is too late to use the library today,’ said Symon, edging away from Michael in alarm. ‘Apply in writing and I shall see what I can do.’

‘It is not the library I want.’ One powerful arm shot out to prevent the librarian’s escape. ‘It is you. Am I mistaken, or did I spot you entering the infirmary after breakfast this morning?’

‘You just said that was Julian and Welles,’ said Bukton, confused.

‘I saw several people,’ said Michael meaningfully. ‘One of whom was the Brother Librarian.’ He waited expectantly for Symon’s answer.

Symon blustered and coughed for a moment as he collected his thoughts. ‘I did cut through the infirmary hall,’ he admitted. ‘But I did not see any killers. I saw Henry dozing and Thomas fast asleep on his sickbed, but nothing else.’

‘How do you know Thomas was fast asleep?’ pounced Michael. ‘How do you know he was not dead?’

Symon blustered even more. ‘I suppose he may have been. The old men were watching me, so I did not go and prod him.’ His reply made it sound as though he might have done if no one had been looking.

‘Why did you go into the infirmary at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You have been haunting it like a ghost ever since Thomas was taken ill, although you never set foot in it normally.’

‘I was concerned for the welfare of my sub-prior,’ replied Symon, looking pleased with himself for thinking up this reply. ‘Is that all? I have other business to attend …’

‘Just a moment,’ snapped Michael, tightening his grip on the slippery librarian’s arm. ‘I have not finished with you yet. I want your expertise.’

‘My what?’ asked Symon nervously.

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael grimly. ‘Bukton – run to the Prior’s House and ask him for the contents of the granary sack I discovered yesterday. He will know what I mean.’

Bukton did not take long. He handed the bag to Michael, who withdrew the book of hours from its parchment wrappings. ‘I found this recently. Do you recognise it?’

Symon regarded the tome suspiciously, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is this a trick? Have you removed it from my shelves, and are testing to see whether I am able to identify it?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew scornfully. ‘We merely want to know whether you have seen it before.’

‘If I say yes, will you give it to me for my collection?’ asked Symon craftily.

‘No, I will not,’ said Michael irritably. ‘And I want you to tell the truth, not some lie that you think will earn you a gift. Do you recognise it?’ He gave a hearty sigh when Symon glanced down and then away. ‘You will not be able to give me your considered opinion if you do not inspect it closely, man! Take it and leaf through it.’

Symon opened the book, and even he could see that here was a script of considerable value. He turned the pages carefully, almost reverently, but then handed it back to Michael with clear reluctance. ‘I am afraid I have never seen it before.’

‘What about this chalice?’ asked Michael, producing the fine cup that had also been hidden in the granary.

Symon shook his head a second time, although he seemed considerably more interested in the silver than he had been in the book. ‘No, but it is very fine and should be in the Prior’s coffers.’ He took it from Michael, then held it and the book up to show the monks who stood in a curious circle around him. ‘Do any of you know these?’

There was a chorus of denials and several shaken heads, although Julian said nothing. His silence did not go unobserved. Michael immediately homed in on him.

‘Which of these is familiar to you?’ he demanded.

Julian was startled to find himself suddenly the centre of attention again. ‘Neither,’ he said, nervously raising one hand to scratch at the smattering of spots around his mouth.

‘Do not lie,’ ordered Michael coldly. ‘It is clear to me that you have seen one or more of these items before, and I want to know which one and where.’

‘It cannot be clear to you,’ blustered Julian. He had scratched one pimple enough to make it bleed. ‘I have said nothing to give you that impression.’

‘It is more a case of what you have not said,’ replied Michael, showing off a little. ‘You alone, of all these men, did not immediately claim ignorance of these items. You said nothing, and I could tell from your eyes that you know something. And now you are picking and scratching at yourself like a dog with fleas, which is a sure sign of an uneasy conscience. So, unless you want to find yourself on latrine duty for the next month, you had better be honest.’

‘I know nothing,’ said Julian in a small voice, close to tears. His continuing denials convinced no one, and here and there the monks began to murmur among themselves. Bartholomew decided that the best way to make Julian speak was to appeal to their sense of self-preservation.

‘There is a murderer in this city, who has already killed five men,’ he said, addressing them. ‘It is possible that William was so afraid that he took all his possessions and fled, while poor Robert was murdered in broad daylight in the grounds of your own priory. And the killer did not even take pity on Thomas, as he lay afflicted with a seizure that rendered him helpless. Is this the kind of man you want in your home?’

Heads were shaken fervently and there was a growing mumble of unease: Bartholomew’s speech had visibly upset some of them. They looked around, as though they imagined that a killer might stalk up and slip his knife into their necks as they stood with their friends outside the refectory. Michael took up the argument.

‘Then you will agree with us that it is imperative Julian tells us the truth, and reveals whatever secret he has learned that might have a bearing on this case?’

‘Brother Michael is right,’ said Bukton fervently, appealing to his friend. ‘I do not want my neck cut as I sleep just because you are a selfish lout who cannot distinguish between truth and lies. Tell Michael what he wants to know.’

‘Yes, or you will have me to deal with,’ added Symon, although whether from genuine concern or merely for show, Bartholomew could not tell.

‘I do not know what Brother Michael wants me to say,’ said Julian, defiant to the last.

‘Then tell him what you think he wants you to say,’ growled Symon, taking a couple of steps towards the uneasy novice. Julian tried to back away, but Welles and Bukton had closed in behind him, and he found himself surrounded. He swallowed hard and turned to face Michael.

‘Very well, but it will not help you.’

‘I will be the judge of that,’ said Michael pompously.

‘I have seen that book before,’ admitted Julian miserably.

‘Where?’ demanded Michael, when Julian faltered into silence again. ‘Did Thomas or William own it? Did you see one of them reading it, or one passing it to the other?’

‘No. I saw it in Robert’s cell the day before he died.’

Bartholomew did not feel like devouring another monstrous meal, although Michael had no objection. They ate quickly, then left to go in search of Henry. Heat radiated from the yellow-grey stones of the priory buildings. Sparrows flapped and fluttered in the dust of the path, while a cat panted in the shade, too lethargic even to chase easy targets.

As they walked, the bell chimed to announce the end of the midday meal. Bartholomew glanced behind him to see the monks emerging from the refectory – more slowly than they had entered, and with considerably less urgency. Some had their heads bent, as though in contemplation, and all had their hands tucked inside their wide sleeves. Bartholomew noted that Michael had also adopted the priory style of walking: in Cambridge, the monk’s hands were either guarding his scrip from pickpockets, or were ready to grab some student who was misbehaving. Julian walked with them, adopting a sullen slouch to register that he resented the fact that Michael had ordered him to accompany them, when it was customary for the brethren to take a period of rest in the afternoons.

‘This mystery is becoming more opaque than ever,’ Michael grumbled, careful to keep his voice low so that Julian would not hear what he was saying. ‘Every time I think I have uncovered a clue that will lead me to new avenues of investigation, I learn something that confuses me even more.’

‘You mean like the book of hours being in Robert’s possession?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We saw Thomas receive a parcel that looked very much like the one containing the tome, but we cannot even be sure that parcel and book are one and the same.’

‘And the packet was most definitely part of the hoard belonging to William,’ said Michael. ‘We know this because Alan said the gold was clipped in a distinctive way, and he is sure it is the same money given to William for his expenditure as hosteller.’

‘But just because the book was found with William’s gold does not mean to say that William put them together. Someone may have stolen the coins from him, along with the book from Robert, and hidden them in the barn.’

‘And that someone may well have been Thomas,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! Why did he have to choose now to have his seizure? Had he remained healthy for a few more moments, we might have prised enough information from him to catch this killer – and Thomas himself would still be alive.’

‘I am not sure Thomas put that sack in the granary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The ladder broke when I climbed it, and I am a good deal lighter than Thomas.’

‘Perhaps it was Thomas’s weight that rendered the rungs weak in the first place,’ suggested Michael.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I doubt a man of Thomas’s girth could have hauled himself up those steps. I am not sure his arms would have been strong enough.’

‘You would probably say the same about me,’ said Michael, pushing back a black sleeve to reveal a meaty white arm, which he flexed proudly. ‘But my strength has saved your life on numerous occasions.’

‘But you do more than stroll between cathedral and refectory all day,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You wrestle with students, and you ride. Thomas did nothing more strenuous than raise a spoon to his lips.’

Michael gave him an reproachful glance. ‘That is unfair. He raised goblets, too. But, although we have a good deal of confusing information about the book, we know nothing about the chalice. England is a large country, and there are churches all across it that own attractive silver, so I suppose there is no reason for us to have heard if it was stolen from some distant place, like Peterborough or Huntingdon.’

‘Is there any particular reason why you mention Huntingdon, Brother?’

Michael looked sharply at him. ‘None. Why?’

‘Because Blanche is from Huntingdon.’

‘I was selecting places at random,’ Michael said dismissively. ‘However, you may have a point, and we must make sure we ask someone from her household whether they recognise it. A positive identification in that direction would give us something to work on.’

‘But, as you have already pointed out, we do not need any more disjointed clues,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That has been our problem all along: we have a mass of small facts and scraps of information, but we are unable to make any sense out of them. The last thing we need is more.’

When they reached the infirmary, Bartholomew thought Henry did not look well. His face was pale, and his eyes were watery. He appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion, and Bartholomew decided he had better agree to sit with Roger that night, or Thomas might not be the only one to have a seizure.

‘You should rest,’ said Michael gently, when he saw the state the kindly physician was in.

‘I feel responsible for what happened to Thomas,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘If I had been more vigilant, then he would be with us now.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘As I told you earlier, if you had been more vigilant, you might well be lying next to Thomas in a coffin. The murderer killed him because it was obvious that he was about to reveal information that would help us.’

‘You did all you could,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Henry was not much comforted by Michael’s words. ‘You made Thomas’s last moments comfortable, and his death was probably quick and painless.’

‘It is the “probably” that worries me, Matthew,’ said Henry miserably. ‘I have lost patients before, of course, but I have never had one murdered while I slept.’

‘Just be thankful that you were not awake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no one else in the priory with your expertise. What would happen to Roger and the other elderly men if the killer had taken you, too?’

‘More to the point, what would have happened to the rest of us?’ added Julian. ‘You bleed us quickly and painlessly. If you were dead, then we would have to go to Barbour of the Lamb, and he makes a terrible mess.’

Julian’s brazen self-interest brought a smile to Henry’s face. ‘You are a wicked boy,’ he said mildly. ‘I despair of ever filling you with compassion.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘Since you will not rest, then you can answer my questions. Alan said you occasionally use the library. Do you recognise this book?’

Henry glanced at it, but then said, ‘I am always too busy to read anything except medical texts on the rare occasions that I persuade Symon to allow me into his domain.’

‘Could you have seen it outside the library?’ pressed Michael.

Henry looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. All the priory’s books are locked up and Symon does not allow them out. Books are far too valuable to be left lying around, as I am sure you know.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Michael loftily. ‘I am a University scholar and well aware of the value of books. But could this particular tome have been in the dormitory, among the personal possessions of any of your fellow brethren?’

‘I would not know that, either,’ said Henry helplessly. ‘I sleep here, with my patients, not in the dormitory. And I am not in the habit of rooting through my colleagues’ belongings, anyway.’

‘We are Benedictines,’ said Julian piously. ‘We do not have many possessions.’

‘We can debate Benedictine wealth another time,’ said Michael quickly, seeing Bartholomew ready to argue. He handed Henry the cup. ‘What about this?’

‘No,’ said Henry, glancing at it without much interest. ‘Does it belong to the cathedral?’

‘Alan says not,’ said Michael.

‘He is right,’ said Julian, taking the cup from Henry and turning it in his hands. His touch was more covetous than curious, and Bartholomew thought that if it went missing, Julian would be the first person to question about its whereabouts.

‘How would you know?’ demanded Michael, snatching it back from him.

‘I was an altar boy before I became a novice,’ explained Julian. ‘But I have never seen this particular piece before.’

‘All right,’ said Michael, replacing the book and chalice inside the sack. ‘Now, I want you both to tell me exactly what happened when Thomas died.’

‘Again, Brother?’ asked Henry, his voice husky with tiredness. ‘It is a painful memory, and I would rather put it from my mind.’

‘And I am sleepy from the heat,’ added Julian. ‘I need my afternoon doze. Can we not do this later?’

‘Murder is not something that waits on sleeping times,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I shall allow you to tell me your story first, and then you can escape, since you seem more interested in that than in justice.’

Julian bridled, but began his story. ‘I left the refectory with Welles and came here. He said he was going to buy fruit, while I went straight to the herb room. That is one of the two small chambers at the opposite end of the hall to where Thomas was lying and Henry was sleeping.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently, seeing Henry wince. ‘We all know what the infirmary looks like: there is the hall where the old men live; at one end is the workshop with the herb room beyond, and at the other end are the two chambers where you and Henry sleep.’

‘Thomas was in one of those,’ said Bartholomew for clarification. ‘In other words, the hall and the workshop were between Julian and Thomas.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Julian. ‘So I heard and saw nothing. I was busy crushing saffron, anyway. I had the door closed, so that the noise would not disturb the patients.’

‘I taught him to do that,’ said Henry to Michael. ‘We always keep the doors closed when we are making medicines. However, the door between my chamber and Thomas’s was open so that I could hear him if he called out, but the killer must have come in stockinged feet. I do not sleep heavily.’

‘But you were exhausted,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Perhaps under normal circumstances you might have woken, but you had had several bad nights, and you had worked hard to try to save Thomas. In any case, the floor is stone, and so it is easy to walk silently.’

‘That is usually a good thing,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘It would not do to have creaking floorboards every time I tend a patient during the night.’

‘The killer must have felt himself blessed indeed,’ mused Michael. ‘Welles at the market, Julian in the herb room, and Henry in an exhausted slumber and uncharacteristically deaf. Perhaps one of the old men heard something.’

‘You can try asking,’ said Henry, although he did not sound hopeful. ‘One is deaf, two are blind, and none is in his right wits. Even Roger’s mind wanders from time to time, and he is the most lively of them all.’

‘Matt can talk to them, while I visit Blanche,’ said Michael. ‘Continue with your tale, Julian. You were in the herb room, chopping saffron.’

‘I was there from just after breakfast.’ Julian showed them orange-stained hands. ‘Henry did not need me to sit with Thomas, although I offered.’

‘I could not trust you,’ said Henry, for once critical of the novice he was determined to save. ‘You are not good at anticipating a patient’s needs, and you might have fallen asleep.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Julian shot back.

Henry fell silent.

‘Did you hear or see anything that might help us?’ asked Michael of Julian. He stepped closer, and there was more menace in the question than was necessary. Julian edged away, but Bartholomew moved behind him, deliberately making the lad feel there was no escape. Bartholomew considered Julian a wholly loathsome specimen, and hoped Michael’s questioning would put the fear of God into him.

‘No,’ said Julian desperately. ‘I told you. I was crushing saffron, which involves using a pestle and mortar and is fairly noisy. And the door was closed. There is a window, but my back was to it. I heard and saw nothing until Welles came. By then, Thomas had been declared dead and he and I were ordered to wash the body.’

‘You did not hear me arrive and examine Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ said Julian. ‘To be frank, crushing saffron is so tedious that I had lulled myself into a sort of working drowse. I heard nothing.’

Bartholomew believed him. He was certain that the lad would have grabbed any opportunity to escape the boring task he had been set, and would have come running had he heard the commotion when it was discovered that Thomas’s death had not been natural – unless, of course, he knew perfectly well the cause of the upheaval and elected to keep his distance from the scene of his crime.

‘Welles,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see him leave the infirmary before you went to the herb room?’

‘No,’ said Julian. ‘I went to the herb room first, while he poked about in the workshop looking for his basket. He was still searching for it when I closed the herb-room door.’

‘Has anyone else visited the infirmary today?’ asked Michael, exchanging a quick glance with Bartholomew. Welles, it seemed, should be questioned once again. ‘Did anyone, other than us, come to see Thomas?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew recommended that no visitors be allowed,’ said Julian. ‘But that is not to say that everyone would have obeyed him. As I said, my back was to the window, so I did not notice. But Thomas’s illness caused much interest in the priory – lots of folk wanted to look at him. Who knows who may have sneaked in while Henry dozed?’

‘Did you see Prior Alan come in?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No!’ cried Julian, becoming exasperated. ‘How many more times must I tell you? I saw no one. The window is at an awkward angle for looking at either of the doors anyway – the main one leading from the Dark Cloister, or the back one.’

‘Someone could have entered through the rear door,’ suggested Henry. ‘It is well oiled, because I do not want creaks and groans disturbing my patients, so it would have been easy to slip in. Poor Thomas!’

‘All this does suggest that the killer is a monk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone was aware that he had a very close call when Thomas was on the verge of telling what he knew, and that same someone was familiar with the layout of the infirmary, so he was able to kill Thomas without being seen or heard.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘News of Thomas’s seizure and its implications spread through the city very quickly, and many Ely folk visit Henry in the infirmary. It is the one place in the priory that the townsfolk do know. Also, I think that a monk would have struck when Thomas was first taken ill. He would not have waited a day.’

‘But there was no opportunity to do that until this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A monk – or someone else – could have been waiting hours for the best moment to strike.’

‘He did wait for the right moment,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I had been sitting next to Thomas, holding his hand and praying for him. I whispered that I was just going to attend to some business, but that I would only be next door and would hear him if he wanted me.’

‘Perhaps the killer heard you saying that, too,’ mused Michael.

‘How could he?’ asked Henry in alarm. ‘Do you think he was hiding under the bed all that time? Or in a cupboard?’

‘No, but he may have been outside a window. The weather is hot, and all the shutters are open to allow a breeze to circulate. The killer could well have been crouching outside in the bushes, listening to you comforting Thomas, and biding his time.’

‘And then I basically announced to the fiend that I was leaving, and that he could kill Thomas at his leisure,’ said Henry in disgust. ‘How could I have been so foolish?’

‘You were not foolish,’ said Michael gently. ‘You just do not think like a killer – thank God! But the day is drawing on. Unfortunately, nothing you have told us throws any light on the killer’s identity, although at least we know how he managed to commit his crime unseen. So, I will go to ask Blanche and her household whether this is her cup, while Matt can question the old men.’

‘You should come with me,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘They may have seen something, and you should hear what they have to say at first hand.’

Michael sighed when, without asking permission, Julian hurried away, presumably to take his nap. Henry came with them, trailing unhappily. Bartholomew supposed there was nothing they could say or do that would convince the physician that Thomas’s death was not his fault and that the sub-prior had been doomed as soon as he had indicated he was party to some dangerous information.

Three of the inmates seemed barely aware that they were alive, and turned blank eyes on Bartholomew when he spoke to them. One of them was also blind, and his opaque eyes could not make out the bed next to him, let alone identify a murderer slipping through the shadows. Meanwhile, Ynys was having a bad day, and imagined himself to be at the battle of Bannockburn, desperate to know if the rumours were true that the English had been routed by the Scots.

‘The Scots would never gain the better of an Englishman,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly, conveniently forgetting that the Scots had scored a significant victory over the armies of the English king some forty years previously.

Ynys was greatly relieved, but asked the same question again moments later, having already forgotten Michael’s assurances. Michael regarded him warily, then turned his attention to Roger. The old man smiled when Bartholomew approached him, revealing pink gums and evidently anticipating a pleasant diversion from the monotony of his days in bed.

‘How did Thomas die?’ he asked in a voice that quivered with age. ‘Did someone poison him at his trough? I saw his giant corpse carried away mid-morning.’

‘He had a seizure,’ said Bartholomew. Roger craned forward, cupping one hand around his ear. ‘HE HAD A SEIZURE.’

‘I wonder why Roger assumed someone had poisoned Thomas,’ said Michael, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I recall young Bukton saying the same thing when Thomas first became ill.’

‘He had a seizure,’ said Roger, nodding in what seemed to be satisfaction. ‘It serves him right. Doubtless God struck him down while he gorged himself without a thought for others.’

‘What do you mean?’ yelled Bartholomew.

‘He intercepted the cooks when they brought our meals from the kitchens, and took our food for himself. He was a greedy man. You will have to do a lot of praying if you ever want him to escape from Purgatory. I will not.’

‘I know you caught him once, but I do not think that was a regular occurrence,’ said Henry apologetically to Bartholomew. ‘The poor man was probably hungry, and acted on impulse.’

‘I am not sure–’ began Bartholomew, not wanting to malign a man who was not in a position to defend himself, but certain Thomas’s penchant for the patients’ dinners had been fairly frequent.

‘I saw him through the window,’ interrupted Roger. ‘I watched the cooks pass him steaming pots to bring to us. Those were the days we ate cheese rinds and stale bread.’

‘But you did not tell me,’ said Henry, agitated. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

‘I told Julian,’ said Roger. ‘I did not want to bother a busy man like you with a trivial matter like our dinners. Julian did nothing, of course. The boy is worthless.’

‘Never mind all this,’ said Michael, casually overlooking the fact that he would not have been so sanguine had it been his own food that had been purloined by the sub-prior. ‘I want to know whether Roger saw anything that might help us regarding Thomas. Ask him, Matt.’

‘He is deaf, Brother,’ said Henry reproachfully. ‘That does not mean he is a half-wit. If you have questions, ask them yourself. Just speak loudly and clearly.’

‘Did you see anything unusual around the time when Thomas was killed?’ Michael shouted, loud enough to frighten Ynys, who demanded his horse and armour.

‘Eh?’ asked Roger.

‘DID YOU SEE HOW HE DIED?’ howled Michael, making his voice crack.

‘Did I see his eyes?’ asked Roger. ‘I wish I had! I would have liked to have seen him aware that it was his Judgement Day. He would have known that there was not much hope for his soul after all his years of gluttony.’

‘Thomas did have a reputation as a man who would do anything for his stomach,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I do not think that alone will send him to Hell.’

‘Speak up!’ snapped Roger. ‘I cannot hear when you whisper.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Henry, patting the old man’s blue-veined hand.

Roger smiled at him. ‘I was glad you were not with Thomas when he died, Henry – you would have absolved him of all his crimes against us, and he did not deserve that.’ He turned bright eyes on Michael. ‘Poor Henry was so tired from all his nights of vigil that he slept in Julian’s chamber while Thomas died. I saw him, drooling with his head on the table.’

‘Please!’ whispered Henry, mortified. ‘You do not have to remind me of my negligence.’

Roger’s sharp expression softened. ‘I apologise, Henry. I have allowed my dislike of Thomas to overshadow my concern for your feelings. But I am still grateful you were not there to absolve him. I am glad it was someone else.’

‘Someone else?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘You saw someone else with Thomas at the time of his death? Who?’

‘Eh?’

‘WHO WAS WITH HIM?’ bellowed Michael.

‘Armour! A sword!’ hollered Ynys. ‘The Scots are coming!’

‘I do not know whether he was a Scot,’ said Roger. ‘I did not see the fellow clearly.’

‘Was it a monk?’ demanded Michael. ‘A lay-brother?’

Roger scratched his head. ‘I did not notice. I saw a fellow in a dark cloak leave the room where Thomas lay. Later – I am not sure how long, because time means little to me these days – Alan arrived, and he and Henry went to tend Thomas. Then Henry reeled from the chamber for some air, and I could tell from the expression on his face that Thomas had taken a turn for the worse.’

‘Death is a turn for the worse,’ agreed Michael wryly. ‘It is a pity Julian had his back to the window, and saw none of these comings and goings. JULIAN SAW NO ONE COME THROUGH EITHER DOOR.’

‘I can well believe it,’ said Roger. ‘The boy is not observant, and anyone intent on mischief would find it easy to elude him.’

‘How did this cloaked man leave?’ shouted Bartholomew, looking at Roger. ‘Through the back door?’

Roger nodded. ‘He was walking slowly, his head bowed in prayer, and he was making the sign of the cross.’

‘Symon!’ exclaimed Michael in satisfaction. ‘We already have his confession that he cut through the infirmary hall to reach his library.’

‘Did you see this figure enter the hall the same way?’ asked Bartholomew loudly.

Roger gave one of his pink smiles. ‘I saw no one arrive – I doze, you see, so I may have been sleeping – but I saw this fellow leave, after kneeling a while with Thomas. As I said, it appeared as though he was praying as he went.’

‘You observed the way he walked, and yet you cannot tell me whether he was a monk?’ said Michael, in disbelief.

‘Not very often,’ said Roger, answering whatever he thought Michael had asked. ‘Few of the younger ones bother with us, and visitors are rare. Prior Alan comes occasionally, but apart from Henry, that vile Julian and young Welles, we seldom see anyone. That was why I noticed the fellow who came to see Thomas.’

‘Can you describe him?’ yelled Bartholomew. ‘WHAT WAS HE WEARING?’

‘I could not see whether he had an ear-ring,’ replied Roger, puzzled by the question. ‘Not that I would have noticed, given that his hood was up. He must be like me, and feels the cold.’

‘He did not want to be seen,’ said Michael. ‘And he wore this cloak for the same reason.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘I did not see Symon wearing a cloak.’

‘But Alan’s prior’s habit is cloak-like,’ suggested Bartholomew softly.

‘All our robes would look cloak-like to Roger,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘He does not see well. Besides, we are Benedictine monks, and all of us own dark cloaks with hoods that we could use for a disguise.’

‘But it would be unusual to wear one today,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is hot, and anyone wearing a cloak would stand out as odd.’

‘He probably removed it as soon as he left the infirmary via the rear door,’ said Michael, disgusted. ‘Damn it all! Here we have a man who actually saw this killer, and all he can tell us is that the fellow disguised himself.’

‘Thomas was murdered,’ shouted Bartholomew to Roger. ‘Can you tell us any more about this person you saw? It is very important.’

‘Thomas’s mother?’ asked Roger, confused. ‘What does she have to do with this? I imagine she is long since in her grave.’

‘THOMAS WAS MURDERED!’ yelled Bartholomew.

‘The Scots are here!’ howled Ynys. ‘Lock up your cattle!’

‘Murdered?’ demanded Roger. ‘You told me he had a seizure. Which is it?’

‘One led to the other,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Can you tell us any more about this visitor?’

‘I saw him only for an instant,’ said Roger. ‘It is a pity: now I know what he did, I wish I had shaken his hand. But I have told you all I know: I glimpsed a figure leaving Thomas’s room, and he was praying – probably asking God to reward him for the good he had done.’

‘That is not kind,’ said Henry admonishingly. ‘And if you know anything at all, you should tell Michael so that he can prevent more people being harmed.’

‘I know nothing more,’ said Roger. ‘I wish him luck in evading you, though. There are plenty more of our “sainted” brethren whom the priory would be better without.’

‘Like who?’ asked Michael curiously. Roger leaned forward in exasperation, pulling his ear to indicate that Michael should speak louder. ‘WHO ELSE WOULD THE PRIORY BE BETTER WITHOUT?’

‘Robert,’ replied Roger immediately. ‘He steals alms intended for the poor, and has been doing it for years. It is also a wicked sin to demand payment from the pilgrims who visit our shrine. And William is not much better.’

‘He steals from the priory, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He pits one man against another, so that their division will make him stronger. It would not surprise me to learn that he is behind this cruel slander against the Bishop.’

‘Would it not?’ mused Michael softly. ‘Now that is interesting.’

When their questions showed that Roger knew nothing more, and that the list of monks he wanted to send to an early grave were those to whom he had taken a personal and frequently irrational dislike, Bartholomew and Michael left the infirmary and went to the Outer Hostry, to speak to Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue.

Blanche was just sitting down to a meal, and her table was almost as loaded with food as were the ones in the monks’ refectory. There were roasted trout, plates of boiled eel, a huge pot of parsnips and a dish of bright green peas. There was bread, too, in tiny loaves made from the priory’s finest white flour. She glanced up when the two scholars tapped on the door, but did not stop her dining preparations. She rolled up her sleeves, so that grease would not spoil them, while a lady-in-waiting tied a large piece of cloth around her neck. A sizeable knife, the blade of which had been honed so many times that it had been worn into a sharp point, was presented to her, and then she was ready.

‘Interesting knife,’ said Bartholomew in an undertone to Michael. Since he had identified the killer’s unique way of dispatching his victims, he had taken to inspecting people’s weapons, to see whether any matched the length and width necessary to commit the crime. Blanche’s fitted nicely.

‘You think that could be the murder weapon?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘And she is using it to eat her dinner?’

‘Perhaps she does not know it might have been used for purposes other than culinary. Or perhaps she is not as squeamish as you are.’

‘So, she or one of her retinue may be the killer,’ muttered Michael. ‘You suggested the killer was a monk. But you could be wrong, because the guests who stay in the Outer Hostry also have access to the vineyards and the hospital.’

‘I was right when I said we did not need any more information, though,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘The more we have, the further away seems the solution.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked Blanche, stretching her arms and flexing her fingers in anticipation. It appeared that, for her, eating involved a considerable amount of physical exercise. ‘I would invite you to dine, but the monks have not been generous in their portions, and I would not like to go hungry because you have chosen to visit me now when it would have been more polite to defer.’

‘Murder is a business that will not wait,’ said Michael pompously. ‘I will do whatever is necessary to catch this killer – even interrupt meals.’

‘You already have your killer,’ said Blanche wearily. ‘The Bishop.’

‘That is unlikely, given that other men have died since Glovere,’ said Michael. ‘I know for a fact that he did not kill Thomas. And if he is innocent of that, then he did not kill the others.’ Glibly he omitted the fact that he knew no such thing, and that, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, de Lisle was still firmly on their list of suspects.

Blanche registered her irritation. ‘I am not saying that he murdered them with his own hands; I am saying that he issued the instructions and that others obeyed them. De Lisle threatened to kill my steward, and I am sure De Lisle ordered Glovere’s death. Pass me one of those trout, will you? It will save me standing.’

Michael produced the ivory-handled knife he used for cutting up his own food, and speared a dead fish on its point. Grease dripped across the table as he transferred it from the serving dish to Blanche’s trencher. All around them, hands stretched and grabbed as the retainers began their own meal, although no one spoke. The conversation between Michael and Blanche was too interesting for that.

At that moment, the door opened behind them and Tysilia entered the room with Ralph at her heels. The Bishop’s steward looked grey and tired, as though less than a day in Tysilia’s company had already drained him of energy. When Tysilia saw Michael, she gave a squeal of delight.

‘Michael! I did not expect to find you here, although I was going to persuade Ralph to make a detour to see whether we could find you a little later. It will be night, and fewer people will observe us.’

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Blanche, none too pleased to see her charge back again. ‘I hope the Bishop does not intend to foist you on me a second time. If so, he can think again.’

‘He thinks you may try to strangle me,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘That is why he has charged Ralph to remain with me at all times, to make sure that you do not.’

‘Shall I step outside for a few moments?’ Bartholomew heard Ralph mutter to Blanche. The physician was not entirely sure that the words were spoken in jest.

‘Then why have you come?’ demanded Blanche of Tysilia. ‘If you seriously think I might throttle you, you should not be here at all.’

‘She says she has left a doll,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘She claims she will not sleep until she has it. And believe me, I would very much like her to sleep.’

‘A doll?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘You mean a child’s toy?’

‘It is a sorry-looking thing,’ said Blanche. ‘But she always has it with her in bed – at least, when she is sleeping. It is usually ousted when she has other company.’

‘Three would be awfully crowded,’ explained Tysilia sincerely. ‘Especially if one of them was the size of Brother Michael.’ She eyed him up and down in a way that made even Bartholomew feel uncomfortable.

‘I can imagine,’ said Blanche dryly. ‘Your doll is in the window. I was planning to have it delivered to you tomorrow, along with all your other possessions, so that you would not think of returning to me.’

‘I would not think of that,’ said Tysilia guilelessly. ‘I did not like living with you. You are ugly, and you drive away the most handsome men with your sharp tongue. I will have a much happier life with my uncle.’

‘Fetch your doll,’ snapped Blanche, taking hold of the trout and ripping it apart as if dead fish were not the only things she would like to dismember. Bartholomew thought de Lisle had been wise to remove the aggravating Tysilia from the King’s kinswoman. Although Blanche doubtless knew perfectly well that Tysilia was her daughter, he imagined it would be extremely difficult to develop maternal feelings for her.

Tysilia skipped across to a shelf near the window, and began to toss things this way and that as she searched. Meanwhile, Ralph looked around him with interest, as though hoping to learn something he could use against Blanche for the benefit of his Bishop. Bartholomew saw his gaze linger on a pile of documents that lay on a table, but since the steward could not read, staring did him no good.

Michael edged as far as he could from the window where Tysilia was creating havoc among skeins of silk, packets of needles and sundry other objects, and spoke to Blanche’s assembled household.

‘Do any of you recognise these items?’ he asked. He raised the cup so that everyone would be able to see it, and then produced the book of hours. ‘Or this book?’

‘That cup is mine!’ exclaimed Blanche, standing up to snatch it back. ‘I always insist that my own vessels are used for masses celebrated in my presence. I missed this two days ago – on Wednesday – and I wondered what had happened to it. I thought it had been stolen.’

She fixed Tysilia with a hard stare, and crammed a large piece of fish into her mouth. Tysilia beamed back at her, and hugged the doll she had finally retrieved. Blanche was right: it was a sorry thing with a painted head that had been chewed and a grubby gown that needed washing.

Bartholomew recalled that Tysilia had been known to steal the property of others in the past, although she had not been very good at hiding what she had taken and was invariably caught before she could profit from her crimes. It was entirely possible that she had taken the cup. But then how had it come to be in the granary with William’s coins and the mysterious book of hours? Had she given it to William, perhaps in return for a promise that he would take her with him when he fled? Tysilia had not been happy with Blanche, and might well have been seduced by a silver tongue that promised freedom in return for treasure. William had a reputation for plots and intrigues, and was perhaps the kind of man to promise something he had no intention of delivering.

‘The chalice was hidden in a sack in the barn,’ explained Michael. ‘Do you have any idea as to how it might have arrived there?’ He addressed his question to Blanche, although it was Tysilia at whom he looked.

‘No,’ said Blanche. ‘But my chalice was stolen. It is valuable, so I suppose some thief took a fancy to it. It was a foolish thing to take, because it is not easy to sell church vessels for gold.’

This, too, was directed towards Tysilia, who seemed oblivious to their pointed comments. She stood clutching the doll to her chest, swinging this way and that as she whispered to it. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Michael, and were dark and unreadable.

‘I imagine not,’ said Bartholomew, declining to ask how Blanche would know that selling stolen church silver was difficult. ‘But you noticed it gone on Wednesday, you say? That was when William disappeared.’

‘I dislike all the yelling and shrieking as the monks compete with the parish priest in the cathedral, and I decided to hear mass from my own chaplain that evening. When he went to fetch the chalice, he found it gone. He assures me it was there at dawn that day.’

‘So, it was stolen between Wednesday morning and dusk,’ surmised Michael thoughtfully. ‘Has anyone been lurking around here who looks suspicious?’

‘Only de Lisle,’ said Blanche, unwilling to allow an opportunity to pass without attacking her enemy. ‘But I doubt he would muddy his hands by stealing my silver. He prefers to use them for murder these days, and theft is a paltry crime compared to that.’

‘My Bishop has killed no one, and he is not a thief,’ declared Ralph hotly, taking a menacing step towards her. Immediately, there was the sound of daggers being whipped from sheaths and several of Blanche’s retainers rose quickly to their feet. Ralph surveyed them and decided on a course of prudence, moving back towards the door. His face remained angry, though, and if looks could kill, then Blanche and her entire household would have been buried that day.

‘The Lamb is a pleasant place for an ale,’ announced Tysilia in the silence that followed, clutching the doll as she made her way towards Michael. She took hold of his arm. ‘We shall go there first, then to somewhere more relaxing.’

‘We shall not,’ said Michael firmly, disentangling himself. ‘I have not eaten yet, and I have no energy to romp with you.’

Bartholomew recalled that Michael had feasted handsomely in the refectory not more than an hour before. He supposed the sight of Blanche’s repast had whetted the monk’s appetite again.

‘Do not expect me to give you any of this trout,’ said Blanche with her mouth full. ‘It is too good to be wasted on fuelling a romp with the Bishop’s whore-child.’

‘I will be gentle,’ insisted Tysilia, reaching for Michael again, but missing when the monk side-stepped her with surprising agility. She snatched at him yet again, and the exercise was repeated several times before she realised she would not catch him. She gave a heavy sigh and folded her arms, pouting, while the courtiers and Ralph watched in open amusement.

‘It is time you went home to de Lisle,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to put an end to the spectacle. He took her arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘He will be wondering where you are, and may be worried about you.’

‘He knows Ralph is with me,’ said Tysilia, trying to struggle away from him. ‘And Ralph will allow me to come to no harm.’

‘De Lisle would never forgive me if I did,’ muttered Ralph resentfully. ‘Although I do not think he has any idea about the enormity of the task he has set me.’

‘Feign sickness tomorrow and let her spend a day in his company,’ advised Blanche. ‘That is all that will be necessary for her to be found floating face-down in the river at the Monks’ Hythe.’

‘Come on,’ said Bartholomew, pushing Tysilia out of the chamber in front of him. She was thick-skinned and resilient and he did not like her, but even he felt uncomfortable to hear her murder discussed in such earnest tones.

‘Why does Brother Michael not want to spend an evening with me?’ pouted Tysilia, as she stood with Bartholomew outside the Outer Hostry. Ralph was with them, although he kept his distance, evidently deciding that every moment she was speaking to Bartholomew was a moment less he would have to deal with her. Sensibly, Michael remained inside with Blanche, asking more questions about the stolen cup and her knowledge of the monks who had been murdered. Bartholomew could hear Blanche declaring that she despised Robert for his obsequiousness, Thomas for his selfishness and gluttony, and William for his secret ways. Blanche, it seemed, had little good to say about anyone.

‘Well?’ demanded Tysilia, when Bartholomew did not reply. ‘I am beautiful, so Michael has no reason to resist me. Why does he?’

‘He is a monk,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Monks do not form liaisons with women; they swore sacred vows not to do so.’

‘Michael swore such a vow?’ asked Tysilia, wide-eyed, as if she had never encountered the notion of celibacy before. ‘What is wrong with him? Does he have some disease that prevents him from enjoying himself with women? Or some physical difficulty?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, who was sure Michael had no problems whatsoever in that area. ‘But you should not pursue him so brazenly. He does not like it.’

‘How could he not like being pursued by me?’ asked Tysilia. ‘I am a goddess: my body is perfect and I have a good mind. Blanche also says I am easy, which must also be a good thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He hated conversations with Tysilia: they rambled in whatever direction she chose and left him wary and bewildered.

Tysilia turned doe eyes on him, great black pools with no spark of life in them at all. ‘Being easy is better than being difficult. My uncle says Blanche is difficult and no one likes her. Therefore, being easy is a virtue.’ She smiled proudly, pleased with her reasoning.

‘Did you take Blanche’s chalice?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling the need to take control of the discussion.

‘Me?’ asked Tysilia innocently. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘To give to William, in exchange for a promise that he would take you away from Blanche. Who told you he was your brother? Him?’

‘Yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘But he has no reason to lie, and I have always wanted a brother.’

‘He is not related to you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is too old, for a start.’

‘He said that his family were obliged to part with me when I was infantile. He told me that de Lisle is not my uncle at all – just a family friend.’

‘And why would a wealthy family like William’s be obliged to pass one of its daughters to a family friend?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Tysilia sighed. ‘I cannot remember the details now. He told me all this when we first arrived in Ely – days ago now – and facts slip from my mind after a while. I think he said it was because de Lisle was lonely. I forget why. Perhaps he has sworn one of these vows, like Michael.’

‘He has,’ said Bartholomew, feeling a surge of anger against William for taking advantage of someone so clearly short of wits. The only good thing was that it would not take Tysilia long to forget her fictitious brother, and that she would soon go back to her normal life – being placed with someone who tried hard to look after her while she made plans to escape that would never work. He wondered whether her sojourn in Ely would result in yet another pregnancy. To his knowledge, she had already been through three, and could not be made to understand the connection between inconvenient children and her promiscuous lifestyle. He was only grateful that Michael had taken fright at her determined wooing.

‘Let us go back to the cup,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject. He knew he would not make Tysilia believe that she and William were not related when she had decided that they were.

‘What cup?’ she asked, looking around her as though she expected one to materialise.

‘The cup Blanche claims was stolen,’ he said, trying not to become exasperated. ‘The one you stole to give to William. Did he ask you to take that particular item?’

‘Of course not,’ she said indignantly. ‘But it was pretty and I thought he would like it.’

‘Where is he? You were very worried about him yesterday, and now you do not seem concerned at all. Has he fled this area and gone somewhere safe?’

She clutched her doll tightly, as if she gained strength from it. ‘I do not know where he is, but he has not fled, because he said he would take me with him. I am still here, so he must be nearby.’

‘So, did you give the cup to William?’

‘I was going to give it to him to prove my affection, but he did not arrive to meet me as he promised, so I hid it in the cemetery. But you know that, because you found me there.’

‘I did not know you were hiding stolen property,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you tell William that you would secrete anything there that you managed to steal?’

‘I was not stealing,’ said Tysilia crossly. ‘I took what she owed me for my company over the last few months. The good things in life are not cheap, as my uncle says.’

‘Then someone must have seen you putting it there,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is possible that it was William – that he did not approach you because I was there, and he could not afford to be seen with you.’

He gazed at her vacant face as he thought about what she had told him. Was William the kind of man to relieve a silly woman of her property and then flee with it to save himself from the killer? Had he put the cup in the bag in the granary, along with the book and the gold? But then why had he left it? Did he plan to return, and take not only the treasure, but Tysilia, too? Or was he already dead, yet another victim of the killer’s slim blade? Or could he be the one with the blade, who was even now fingering it as he considered his next victim?

‘Is there any more you can tell me about William or Blanche – or anyone at all – that may help Brother Michael to help catch this killer?’

He did not hold much hope that any significant facts had lodged themselves in the peculiar mess of ideas and fantasies that passed as her mind, and was surprised to see her nod. ‘I know a good deal. But I will only tell Brother Michael, since it is he who is looking for this killer.’

‘We must go,’ said Ralph, tired of waiting for her. ‘I do not want to lose my job because you have kept me out all day. I like working for the Bishop.’

‘What were you going to tell me?’ asked Bartholomew of Tysilia. ‘I promise to pass any information to Brother Michael.’

‘I do not trust you,’ said Tysilia. ‘I will tell Michael or no one. Tell him to meet me here, at this door, at midnight tonight.’

‘How do you think you will gain access to the priory at that hour?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling at the ludicrous nature of her proposal. ‘And what do you think the Bishop will say when he learns you wander the town at night meeting men?’

‘He will not know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘My chamber is on the ground floor, and I only need to climb out of the window. And I will do what William told me to do when I met him late at night. I will borrow my uncle’s cloak, raise the hood and join the end of the procession of monks as they leave the cathedral after the midnight mass.’

Bartholomew considered her suggestion. Was Tysilia the cloaked figure who had wandered into the hospital and murdered Thomas while Henry dozed within hearing distance? He shook his head impatiently. He knew perfectly well that she was not sufficiently clever to carry out a careful and meticulous murder and leave no clues. But could she have done it if William had told her how? He rubbed a hand through his hair, but then decided that he could not be more wrong. Tysilia was exactly what she appeared to be, and she did not have the wits to pretend otherwise.

‘Michael will not come unless he knows you have something useful to tell him,’ he said. ‘And I see nothing to suggest that is the case.’

‘I will tell him about William,’ said Tysilia.

Bartholomew gazed at her. People tended to dismiss her as a lunatic, and to ignore her presence when they were up to no good. Therefore, she often saw or heard things that were important and, occasionally, she even recalled some of it. It was just possible that she had something relevant to say about the hosteller.

‘Midnight,’ she whispered again, her breath hot on his cheek. ‘Tell Brother Michael to come and meet me right here.’ She paused, and then treated Bartholomew to a smile that was mostly leer, so that the physician was sure she had more in mind than an innocent exchange of information. ‘And tell him to come alone.’