A Summer of Discontent (19 page)

‘This is not bad,’ said Bartholomew, sipping the mixture. It was surprisingly cool, and its mildness meant that he could drink
it quickly without running the risk of becoming drowsy or drunk. The priory’s strong beer made him thirsty, and he decided
the weak brew served at the Mermaid was perfect for a hot day, despite Michael’s disparaging comments.

As the pot-boy passed, Michael caught his arm. ‘Which one of your customers is Mackerell?’

The boy grinned, revealing yellow teeth encrusted with tartar, and pointed to the window. ‘The one who looks like a pike,’
he replied cheekily, before pulling away from Michael and going about his business.

Bartholomew could see the lad’s point. The man they had come to see had a grey, sallow complexion that reminded the physician
of fish scales. This was accompanied by large, sorrowful eyes and a mouth that drooped open in a flaccid gape, much like the
carp in the priory’s ponds. The fact that Mackerell was almost bald and wore an apron stiff with the blood and skins of the
beasts that provided his living did nothing to dispel the piscine image. Michael took his beer and carried it across to the
window. Bartholomew followed.

‘Master Mackerell,’ said Michael, sitting next to the man and favouring him with one of his alarming beams. ‘I wonder if you
would mind answering one or two questions.’

‘I would,’ replied Mackerell with naked hostility. ‘Bugger off.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Michael, producing a bright coin from his scrip. ‘I was willing to buy you a jug of ale in return for
a moment or two of your company.’

‘You can keep your ale,’ replied Mackerell nastily. ‘I have some already.’

‘Debilis cervisia is not ale,’ replied Michael dismissively, casually opening Bartholomew’s medicine bag and removing the
small skin of wine that he knew was kept there for medical emergencies. The physician tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch it
back. ‘I personally prefer the finest wine from southern France.’

‘We are at war with France,’ said Mackerell icily, unexpectedly patriotic. ‘I would not allow any brew produced by Frenchmen
to pass
my
lips.’

Michael sighed, and took a swallow of the wine before handing it back to Bartholomew. Then he quickly shuffled up the bench,
so that Mackerell found himself trapped between the window and the sizeable bulk of the large-boned monk. Mackerell tried
to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Michael favoured him with a grin that was neither humorous nor friendly.

‘Come now, Master Mackerell,’ he said in a soft voice that oozed menace. ‘You cannot object to passing the time of day with
a man of God. But neither of us is comfortable crammed together like this, so I will be brief. What do you know about the
three bodies you found in the river?’

‘They drowned,’ replied Mackerell sullenly. ‘Now leave me alone.’

‘They did not drown,’ said Michael firmly. ‘They were stabbed. You found all three: should I assume that you had a hand in
their deaths?’

Mackerell regarded him with open loathing. ‘Leave me
alone, and go back to whatever vile monastery you come from.’

‘Ely,’ whispered Michael sibilantly. ‘I hail from Ely Cathedral-Priory, and I will not be going anywhere. Now, someone has
accused my Bishop of murdering one of those men, and I happen to know that he is innocent. I disapprove of innocent men being
called to answer for crimes they did not commit, and that is why I want to talk to you.’

Mackerell shrank away from him, unsettled by the monk’s persistence. ‘But I know nothing! It has nothing to do with me!’

‘What has nothing to do with you?’ pounced Michael.

‘Their deaths! I know nothing!’

‘You know something,’ Michael determined, regarding the fish-man intently. ‘Behind all that arrogant bluster, you are a frightened
man. If you tell me why, I may be able to help you. If you do not, then perhaps a fourth corpse will appear tomorrow, dripping
river water over the church floor, dead by foul means.’

‘Those three died of foul means, all right,’ said Mackerell. ‘There is nothing more foul than a death by water. First comes
the shock of the cold, then the water grips you, and the weeds and mud suck at your legs. Then you realise you cannot breathe,
so you struggle, but it is to no avail. The water closes over your head, and your ears are full of roaring—’

‘Please!’ exclaimed Bartholomew with a shudder. He had once had a narrow escape from drowning himself, not eight miles from
where he now sat and Mackerell’s vivid descriptions brought back memories that he would rather keep suppressed.

Mackerell gave a cold smile. ‘All I can tell you is that the rumours about Haywarde are untrue: he never intended to take
his own life. A man intent on killing himself would not choose the Monks’ Hythe to do it. The water there is too slow-moving,
and it would be too easy to lose courage and swim to safety.’

‘So, all three were murdered elsewhere, and their bodies thrown into the river upstream,’ deduced Bartholomew.

Mackerell glowered at him. ‘I did not say that. You did.’

Michael sighed again, and eased even closer to the man, so that Mackerell’s breath began to come in agitated pants. Bartholomew
glanced uneasily at him, uncomfortable with the monk’s ways of gathering information. ‘Are you telling me that my colleague’s
suppositions are wrong?’

‘No,’ gasped Mackerell. ‘I am saying that
I
was not the one who told you all this.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, easing the pressure a little and rubbing his chin with one fat hand. ‘You are afraid that the wrong
person may learn that you have been telling tales. Who?’

‘I did not say that either,’ said Mackerell angrily. ‘You are like the Inquisition, putting words into people’s mouths that
they never intended to say! It is typical behaviour for a churchman!’

Michael regarded him sombrely. ‘How did you come to find the bodies?’

‘I am always the first to arrive at the hythes of a morning. Ask anyone here. They will all tell you that I am about my work
long before anyone else bothers to stir a lazy limb. Of course I was the one to find them.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, regarding Mackerell in a way that indicated he had not completely accepted the man’s story. Bartholomew
supposed it was a ploy intended to make Mackerell nervous, and it seemed to be succeeding.

‘I know nothing,’ said Mackerell again. ‘All I can tell you is that you may be right when you say they went into the water
away from the town – either that or they were dumped in the Monks’ Hythe very late at night, because no one here saw or heard
anything as far as I know.’

‘I see,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen any strangers here recently? Folk you do not know, or who you consider
dangerous?’

‘The Bishop often strolls down here of an evening,’ said
Mackerell slyly. ‘
He
is dangerous.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Michael, becoming angry. ‘Have there been mercenaries or rough men, who might stab a man
for his purse?’

‘The gypsies,’ said Mackerell immediately. ‘They have been burgling their way around the town, and so it is possible that
they have been murdering people, too.’

Michael sat back, finally releasing the fish-man. ‘You have not been helpful at all. I have a good mind to arrest you, and
see that you spend a few nights in the Prior’s cells.’

‘Arrest me?’ asked Mackerell, the belligerence in his voice replaced by a sudden hope. ‘You will put me in the prison near
the castle?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael with grim determination. ‘But the Prior’s prison is not a place most sane men would want to be. Do not
look as though you consider it a rare treat.’

‘I would be safe there. It is a long way from the river, and the water-spirits will not be able to penetrate the walls. Yes,
take me, Brother. Lock me away.’

Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘It was not water-spirits that murdered those men: it was a person. And this person must
be stopped before he harms anyone else.’

‘You know nothing,’ said Mackerell contemptuously. ‘The spirits are all-seeing, and they will know if I betray them. But the
prison is a safe distance from the river, and no one would ever think to look there …’

‘It would be more comfortable if we arranged for you to stay in the priory precincts,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘I am
sure a bed can be found in the stables or in the infirmary.’

Mackerell shook his head firmly. ‘It will have to be the prison – at least until the water-spirits have had their fill of
human souls and return whence they came. The prison has locks and thick walls.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael impatiently, never a man interested or tolerant of the superstitions that governed
the lives of many common folk. ‘There
is no such thing as water-spirits.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Mackerell. ‘But I will not talk to you here. Put me in the cells first, and then I will discuss the
spirits with you. If—’

He broke off as the door opened and Bartholomew was surprised to see the gypsies enter – Guido first, then the slack-jawed
Rosel with Eulalia, and finally Goran, who wore a hood over his head to protect it from the sun. Eulalia smiled at Bartholomew
and waved, earning a black glower from Guido.

Just as Goran was closing the door behind him, one of the stray dogs that lived on the streets rushed in, and there was a
commotion as it ran around the tables barking at people and snapping at ankles. It was almost wild, and the foam that oozed
from its mouth indicated that it was probably sick. No one wanted to touch it, and it was some time before it was evicted
and calm was restored. When Bartholomew turned his attention back to Mackerell, the man had gone.

The pot-boy came to stand next to them. ‘Mackerell says he will meet you at the priory gate on Broad Lane tomorrow after compline,’
he said in his annoyingly cheerful voice. ‘He told me that he wants to put his affairs in order first, but that he will tell
you all you need to know then, in return for the favour you offered.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly, unamused that their witness had made his escape so easily. Seeing that there was nothing to
be done about Mackerell, Bartholomew wandered across the tavern to talk to Eulalia, leaving the monk to the dubious pleasure
of the pot-boy’s company.

‘He is a slippery one, that Mackerell,’ said the boy, correctly deducing from the frustrated expression on Michael’s face
that the fish-man had ducked away in the middle of a conversation. ‘Just like the eels he catches. What was he going to tell
you? Perhaps I can help. You can give
me
the coin instead.’

‘Tell me about the water-spirits, then,’ said Michael tiredly.

The boy gazed at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Is that what he was talking about? You should keep your money, Brother! Mackerell
is a superstitious old fool! Water-spirits!’

Some of the men on the next table overheard him, and exchanged grins, shaking their heads in amusement.

‘Mackerell grew up deep in the Fens,’ called one of them, addressing Michael. ‘They all worship water-spirits out there. In
Ely, though, we are Christians and do not believe in pagan ghosts. Mackerell knows his eels right enough, but do not engage
him on matters of religion.’

‘Ask me something else,’ insisted the pot-boy, plucking at Michael’s sleeve in an attempt to regain the monk’s attention.
‘I will be a much better source of information than Mackerell. Mind you, I am more expensive, too. Quality costs.’

‘Then what is the word about the three dead men?’ asked Michael testily.

The pot-boy considered for a moment. ‘Father John tells us that they were all murdered, but you will not find any tears spilled
for them here. Personally, I think John is wrong, and that they just went the way of all evil men.’

‘Meaning?’ demanded Michael.

‘Meaning that the river reached out and took them,’ replied the boy simply. ‘That river knows a wicked soul when it sees one,
and it made an end of Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like blaming water-spirits to me,’ said Michael.

‘It is not!’ claimed the pot-boy indignantly. ‘It is a completely different thing to believe in the power of the river and
the existence of fairies.’ He turned to the men at the next table to support him. ‘Tell him I am right.’

‘He is right,’ agreed one of the men. ‘There is nothing fairy-like about our river. But personally,
I
think that outlaws invaded the town and killed the three men for their purses. We will ask the Bishop’s soldiers to mount
more patrols until they are caught.’

Michael finished his ale and prepared to leave. ‘I doubt patrols will do any good. What Ely has is a cunning and ruthless
killer on the loose. All I can say is that I hope none of you will be his next victim.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving a lot of worried faces behind him.

It was noon when Bartholomew returned to the priory to hunt for Brother Symon. As Michael had predicted, the librarian had
hidden himself in a last-ditch attempt to disobey his Prior’s orders and prevent anyone from setting foot in his domain. Bartholomew
searched the refectory, the dormitory, the cloisters and the cathedral, but the librarian seemed to have disappeared into
thin air.

‘What is wrong with the man?’ asked Bartholomew, frustrated to think that there were books awaiting his attention, so close
that he could almost see them, yet to which he was denied access because of a caretaker’s idiosyncrasies.

‘He is not a good librarian, and he does not want his shortcomings exposed,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘His best strategy
is not to allow anyone inside at all; thus his secret will be safe.’

‘I do not care if he keeps his books in wine barrels,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘I only want to read them. I will even
put them back the way I found them.’

‘We will track him down,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘There are still one or two places you have not looked. We will check
the infirmary, then the Prior’s chapel and perhaps the almonry.’