A Summer of Discontent (16 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who, then?’ demanded Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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