A Summer of Discontent (15 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The deaths
were
premeditated,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We shall tell him,’ said Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I
T WAS AFTERNOON BY THE TIME THAT
B
ARTHOLOMEW AND
Michael had completed their examination of the bodies in St Mary’s Church, and had put them back the way they had found them.
John offered Bartholomew four grubby pennies for his pains, which the physician refused, asking that they be given to Haywarde’s
widow instead. Then he and Michael left the church, and stepped gratefully into the glorious sunshine outside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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