A Summer of Discontent (17 page)

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

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

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

‘And Haywarde?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who found the corpses?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘That sounds serious,’ said Alan sympathetically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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