A Summer of Discontent (27 page)

‘It was nasty,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Breakfast,’ declared Michael, knowing that the tables would already be laden with the morning fare, and that an early arrival
would allow him to select the best of it.

‘And then what?’

Michael sighed. ‘I really have no idea. Everyone tells me that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were hated. That means that
anyone from the city could have killed them. Meanwhile, certain factions in the town tell me that the deaths – and various
burglaries – only started when the gypsies arrived in Ely.’

‘Only Leycestre really seems to believe that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Others listen to his raving, but do not act on it.’

‘They acted last night,’ Michael pointed out, referring to the incident outside the Lamb that Bartholomew had described while
the monk had devoured his final meal of the day the previous evening. ‘You told me they were ready for a lynching.’

‘They were drunk, and drunks are not noted for their powers of reason and common sense.’

‘I do not know what to do next, actually,’ confessed Michael gloomily, his thoughts returning to his floundering investigation.
‘I could bribe a riverman to take me to
Mackerell’s Fenland lair. I am even considering asking whether Stretton or Northburgh have learned anything of value – and
I am certain they could not have done, so you can see how desperate I am.’

‘Northburgh spent all yesterday pestering poor Henry about “cures” for old age. He is not interested in solving this case,
only in cheating death. And Canon Stretton was far too drunk to have learned anything at all, other than that bona cervisia
is a powerful brew.’

‘Perhaps I should engage Tysilia to help me, as William has done,’ grumbled Michael bitterly. ‘I have never been quite so
much at a loss in a case before.’

After breakfast, Bartholomew wandered outside, leaving Michael to the dubious delights of conversation with his fellow monks.
It was unprepossessing company as far as the physician was concerned. Prior Alan was distracted and uncommunicative, because
his clever mind was wrestling with some technical problem relating to his beloved octagon; Sub-prior Thomas was incensed that
Michael had selected the best of the breakfast items before he had arrived, and was busily feeding in sullen silence with
his vast jowls quivering in agitation; and Almoner Robert, who usually passed the time at meals by fighting with Hosteller
William, was grim-faced and silent because William was not there. The only person who offered a potentially enjoyable discussion
was Henry, but he was taking breakfast in the infirmary. Judging from his own experiences, Bartholomew did not blame Henry
for preferring the company of deaf or senile monks to the bickering in the refectory.

Bartholomew hovered by the refectory’s back door, then stretched out an arm to halt the urgent progress of Brother Symon as
he shot out a few moments later. Displeased that his attempt to disappear had been thwarted, the librarian only agreed to
open the door to his domain with very bad grace. While he waited for the monk to fetch the key from wherever he hid it each
night, Bartholomew stared out
across the graves in the cemetery and thought about the work he planned to do that day.

As he gazed, he saw a spot of colour among the leaves of the tree that William and Tysilia had used for their tryst the previous
day. It was moving this way and that in an agitated manner; then he became aware of a peculiar noise, too. It sounded like
sobbing. Curious, he walked through the dew-soaked grass and approached the tree.

Tysilia sat there, facing the wall and rocking back and forth as she wept in a most heart-rending manner. Bartholomew was
used to Tysilia arousing a variety of emotions in him, the most common of which were dislike, exasperation and distrust, but
he had never before experienced compassion for her. Wondering what could reduce the infuriatingly cheerful and ebullient woman
to tears, he touched her gently on the shoulder.

‘What is wrong? Can I help?’

She gazed up at him with eyes red from weeping, her face a streaked mess from the tears that had run down them. ‘I want William,’
she said in a wail. She began to cry again, this time much louder and more piercingly, so that Bartholomew glanced behind
him in alarm, afraid that someone would hear them and assume he was doing her some harm.

‘I will fetch him for you,’ he said backing away. ‘He is probably in the refectory, eating his breakfast.’

But he was not, Bartholomew realised. The seat usually occupied by William had been empty. But, the physician reasoned, William’s
absence at breakfast was an odd excuse for Tysilia’s display of agitation.

‘He is not in the refectory!’ she howled. ‘I have already been there, and he is not with the rest of the monks. He is taken,
like the others.’

‘What others?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Glovere and the two peasants,’ she screeched. ‘We will find William dead in the river, like them.’

This notion brought on a renewed frenzy of grief, and
Bartholomew was hard pressed to calm her. Speaking was no use, because she was making too much noise to hear anything that
was said, and the only thing he could think to do was to put his arms around her until she quieted herself. He hoped that
her anguish had not attracted the attention of gossiping monks who might complain to Blanche or the Prior that one guest was
seducing another. If so, he thought, Tysilia’s reputation was such that he doubted whether
he
would be credited with the seduction.

‘William will not be found in the river,’ he said gently, when he was sure he could make himself heard. ‘Glovere and the others
were townsmen, and there is no reason to suggest that the killer would strike at a monk.’

‘There is no reason to assume he would not,’ she shot back, uncharacteristically astute. ‘There is a first time for everything,
as my uncle likes to say.’

‘But no monks
have
been killed,’ Bartholomew pointed out, helping her to stand. For the first time since he had known her, Tysilia was not pretty.
Her eyes were red and swollen, and her usually clear skin was blotchy. Her appearance was not improved by twin trails of mucus
that ran from her nose. He handed her a piece of linen, which she used to rub at a spot of mud on her sleeve. The mucus looked
set to stay for the duration of the conversation. ‘And you must remember that the victims so far have been unpopular people.’

‘William is unpopular,’ sniffed Tysilia miserably. ‘No monks like him because he is harsh, and no townsfolk like him because
he is a monk.’

‘That may be so, but he is not hated, as Glovere was. Wipe your nose.’

‘Almoner Robert hates him,’ said Tysilia, snuffling wetly as she fiddled with the linen. ‘They have loathed each other since
they were children. I think it is because Robert is jealous of William’s beautiful hair.’

‘Please wipe your nose,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘But if William and Robert’s antagonism is long-standing, there is no reason
why one should harm the other now.’

She scrubbed at her face with the linen and then handed it back to him. ‘I wish you were Brother Michael.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is having breakfast.’

‘Will you fetch him? I am sure he will find William for me.’

‘William will appear when he is ready,’ said Bartholomew, determined not to deliver his friend into her hands. ‘There is no
need to disturb Michael.’

‘Pity,’ said Tysilia wistfully. ‘A few moments with Michael would take my mind off my other worries. I am sure he knows how
to make a woman forget herself.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, not caring to speculate.

She turned towards him, and seemed to be regaining her composure. ‘What shall I do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘William will come to you when he has finished whatever it is he is doing. And why do you care
so, anyway? You have not been here long enough to have formed any serious attachment to the man.’

‘He will
not
come!’ wailed Tysilia with a fresh flood of tears. ‘He was supposed to meet me this morning, during prime, but he did not
come. He is dead, I tell you!’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took her elbow and guided her along the narrow path to the guesthouse, where he hoped
he could deposit her with Blanche. She would doubtless know how to deal with the near-hysterical woman. ‘But you have not
told me why you are so upset about him. Is he your latest lover?’

She looked at him as though he had just committed the most frightful indiscretion. ‘He is my brother! Do I look like the kind
of woman who would sleep with my brother? Anyway, it is Michael who has my heart, not William.’

Bartholomew thought she looked like the kind of woman who would take anyone to her bed, but decided now was not the time to
mention it. ‘William is not your brother,’ he said instead, puzzled as to how she had managed to come up with such a ludicrous
notion.

She pulled away from him. ‘He
is
,’ she declared with
finality. ‘And what would you know, anyway? You are only someone who mixes herbs – an apoplexy.’

‘Apothecary,’ he corrected, before deciding there was little point in trying to educate Tysilia. She would not remember what
he had said by the next time she met him.

The door to the Outer Hostry opened and the burly Blanche bustled out, hoisting her skirts under her bosom and gazing around
as if the world had done her a serious injustice.

‘There is Lady Blanche,’ he said. ‘Wipe your nose again, before you go to her.’

‘I do not feel like going to
her
,’ said Tysilia sulkily, rubbing a sleeve across her face. ‘She is worse than the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent, and is always
trying to keep me inside when I want to go out.’

‘I am sure she is,’ muttered Bartholomew, trying to attract Blanche’s attention.

‘It is very annoying, actually,’ Tysilia went on with another sloppy sniff. Her acute distress was forgotten, and she was
already sounding like her normal self. Bartholomew envied her ability to recover from inconvenient emotions. ‘How can I make
friends with charming men when she is watching me all the time?’

‘What were you going to discuss with William?’ asked Bartholomew. Blanche had her back to him, and did not see his energetic
waving. ‘Do you know anything more about these murders? Does he?’

‘No,’ Tysilia said aggressively, pulling her arm away from him. She thought for a moment. ‘What murders?’

‘Do not lie, Tysilia,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I overheard you and William talking yesterday. I know he has charged you
to discover whether Blanche killed Glovere.’

She beamed proudly and took his arm again. ‘William said it was a secret. But since you know, it is no longer a secret, so
I can tell whoever I like. William trusts me. For some reason, some people think I lack wits, but he saw that I have quite
a few of them.’

‘And he set you to put them to use,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the hosteller was insane to have entrusted Tysilia with
anything. At best, she had told Blanche that a member of the monastery thought her guilty of murdering her own steward to
discredit de Lisle, and at worst, she might inadvertently reveal to the killer that William was on his trail.

‘He said I am an intellec … inteller … clever woman, and could be of great use to him. He is right, of course. I may
not have paid attention to my studies, and I have no patience with staring at silly marks on smelly pieces of parchment, but
I have spent time at a University, you know.’

‘You have?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, still trying to catch Blanche’s eye. As far as he knew, no universities accepted
female scholars, and women who wanted a life of learning tended to do so in convents that had a reputation for their libraries.
However, the notion that Tysilia had spent time in one of these was so improbable that it was humorous.

Tysilia nodded sagely. ‘I have been to the University of Life.’ She beamed her vacant grin, and Bartholomew wondered how,
a few months earlier, he ever could have imagined that her slow-witted exterior hid a cunning mind. ‘That is a clever phrase,
is it not? I invented it myself. It means that while you have had learning from books, I have been living a life.’

‘But you have spent most of your life in convents – or trying to escape from them – so how does that make you so worldly?’
asked Bartholomew, amused.

‘It just does,’ pouted Tysilia. ‘And do not wave your arm like that, or Blanche will think you are trying to attract her attention.’

‘You have not answered my question. Have you or William learned anything about the death of Glovere? Why did he think Blanche
might know about it?’

Tysilia looked around her quickly, and then leaned close to him, so that her breath was unpleasantly hot against his ear.
‘William told me to keep my voice low when I talk about this, so that no one will overhear what I have to say.’

‘But that is not necessary here,’ Bartholomew said. ‘There is no one close by.’

‘Blanche is over there,’ Tysilia pointed out, reverting to her normal bellow, so that the King’s kinswoman turned around even
though she was still some distance away. Blanche’s eyes narrowed when she saw Tysilia clinging to Bartholomew’s arm. She hoisted
her skirts and powered towards them, her mouth set in a narrow, grim line. The physician was not sure whether the disapproval
was directed at him or at Tysilia, and determined to extricate himself as soon as possible.

‘Blanche has long, sharp ears, like a horse,’ Tysilia went on. ‘She hears all sorts of things.’

‘A horse?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. He needed to ask about William before Blanche reached them, not
allow Tysilia to side-track him with what would doubtless prove to be some asinine observation.

‘Horses have long, sharp ears,’ said Tysilia authoritatively. ‘Although I suppose they are more pointed than sharp, really.
In fact, I am not sure what is meant by a “sharp ear”. But whatever it is, Blanche has them. William told me so, and he is
my brother, so he must be right.’