A Summer of Discontent (33 page)

Reluctant to go to his own room to rest while the sub-prior lay stricken and frightened, Henry agreed to lie on one of the
infirmary’s spare beds for a while. Almost immediately he fell asleep; the long night of nursing Roger, plus the energy expended
in tending Thomas, had left him exhausted.

‘Robert did not die easily,’ said Bartholomew to Michael in a low voice, when they were seated in one of the rooms at the
end of the infirmary hall. From it, he could see
Thomas in Henry’s chamber next door, and could also watch the old men. ‘He knew what was going to happen to him, and he fought
hard.’

‘The others did not,’ said Michael. ‘At least, you did not mention that they had.’

‘They may have done, but there was no damage to their hands, as there is to Robert’s. But the others probably did not know
what was in store for them – the killer may have ordered them to lie still and quiet, and promised to release them if they
complied. But Robert, like everyone else in Ely now, was aware of how the killer works. He knew he was going to die as soon
as his assailant had him helpless on the ground.’

‘That explains why the others died without a fight, and Robert did not. But it implies that the killer is no rogue stranger
from outside the city; he is someone they all knew, if not trusted.’ Michael pursed his lips. ‘I wonder what Thomas was involved
in? It must have been something dreadful, or he would not have had a near-fatal seizure when I questioned him about it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew cautiously.

‘Then what do you think?’ pressed Michael, aware of Bartholomew’s hesitation. ‘What was in that packet? And who gave it to
him? It might have been a letter. Perhaps it was even the letter that resulted in William fleeing his priory with half its
available cash.’

‘It may have been a letter,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Although it would have been quite a long one. It was no single sheet
of parchment that changed hands in the vineyards last night.’

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael, pacing in the small room. ‘I was so determined that Thomas should not believe we were spying
on him in the vineyard that I neglected to question him when I should have done. If I had accused him of lying when he first
did it, we would not have had that unpleasant scene in the refectory today.’

‘No, we would have had it in one of the most remote
corners of the monastery, which would have been far worse. But the man was ripe for a seizure anyway – we saw that last night
when he was sweating and panting over that short walk from the priory. I suspect that the strain of being involved in subterfuge
set him off, not you.’

‘That killer is growing bold, Matt,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘At first, he murdered secretly and in the depths of night, when
all honest folk were in their beds, but today he struck in broad daylight.’

‘It
was
in broad daylight, but it was also in the vineyard – parts of which are very isolated – where the killer knew he would be
unlikely to be disturbed.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Michael. ‘Robert was wandering about there, so why could others not have been, too?’

‘That is an interesting point. I wonder whether the killer spoke to Robert first and learned
why
he was in the vineyard hunting for William, instead of gorging himself in the refectory.’

Michael mused for a moment. ‘But that assumes that Robert knew the killer. It also assumes that the killer was someone from
outside
the priory – all the monks
inside
had been party to the unedifying scene in the refectory, and knew perfectly well why Robert was out and about.’

‘William did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was not eating his second breakfast when you interrogated Thomas, and would have
no idea why Robert should be hunting for him.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘He would not.’

‘My explanation also supposes that the killer gained access to the vineyards with ease. They are surrounded by formidable
walls on three sides and by priory buildings on the other. There are four gates, but all are kept locked and only the Steeple
Gate has a guard who will undo it for you.’

‘The culprit broke in, then,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps the previous night.’

‘Or he has a key. You borrowed one easily enough when you wanted to use it the other day.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael softly. ‘There are a number of
the wretched things, and every monk here is aware that they are hanging on hooks in the chapter house. This is not a priory
that restricts every movement of its members, and we all know that we are permitted to leave the precincts on occasion if
necessary – as long as we do not abuse the privilege.’

‘So, a count of the keys will tell us nothing, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What about asking if anyone is aware who borrowed
them recently?’

‘That would tell us nothing, either,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I know for a fact that Henry has had one for years, so that
he can go out to hunt for medicinal herbs when he needs them, and there are others who also hoard them for their personal
convenience – Robert for example, and Thomas and Symon.’

‘Robert had one? Then perhaps the killer stole it from him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘If we start asking about keys, we will waste a lot of time and possibly end up accusing someone who is innocent.
It is too difficult an avenue of investigation, and it will be too easy for the killer to lie.’

‘I do not understand how the killer took Robert’s body from the vineyard and dumped it in the Quay with no one seeing what
he was doing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was not dark, and this is a busy city.’

‘That is simple to answer, although I am surprised you need me to point it out. It is market day, and even if you have nothing
to sell or to buy, it is the most important day of the week for Ely folk. Everyone gathers in the marketplace to chat and
exchange information. It is safe to assume that the killer would be unlikely to meet anyone near the water.’

‘But even so, it is a brave man who risks being seen by a merchant glancing out of his window, or by an apprentice on an errand
for his master. This is a lively place, and to expect the Quay to be deserted at that time of the day is unreasonable.’

‘Nevertheless, it is what happened. You examined the body yourself, and you were the one who pointed out the
vine leaves. Since the corpse did not walk to the water itself, it must have been taken there.’

‘I suppose it is possible that Robert was killed on the Quay – not in the vineyard – and then his body was rolled into the
water,’ said Bartholomew, casting around for plausible solutions.

‘Why would Robert have been at the Quay? He was searching the priory grounds for William, not looking for fish. And anyway,
what about the leaves you found on his clothes? They were from vines, and they mean he was in the vineyard.’

‘But they do not mean that he was
killed
in the vineyard. And suppose he was not searching for William at all? Suppose he was at the Quay for some other reason?’

‘Damn it all! I wish I had not questioned Thomas – then he would not be in the infirmary, and Robert would not be in the cathedral
with a slashed neck.’

‘How do you know that? Robert might have gone to his death today regardless of anything you could have done, while I have
already told you that Thomas was ripe for a seizure.’

‘God’s blood, Matt! When I agreed to investigate this case, I had no idea it would lead to all this. I am tempted to grab
my horse and ride back to Cambridge today, where at least I understand the scholars and their ways.’

‘And what about de Lisle? He will not appreciate being abandoned while a charge of murder hangs over his head.’

‘No, he will not,’ said Michael. ‘But I am at a loss as how to make any progress. There is Thomas, who declined to tell us
whom he was meeting or what was passed to him in that white package. There is William, who convinced Tysilia she is his sister
and then persuaded her to spy on Blanche for him. Now he has fled.’

‘
If
he has fled, Brother,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘It would not surprise me if he turned up floating in the river at some point,
and the missing money was nowhere to be found.’

‘What are you saying? That someone packed away all William’s belongings, and then pretended to be him riding
away on a gelding last night?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘Why not? His flight does not fit the evidence: he was investigating the murders on his own behalf, then, with no explanation,
he left without a word to anyone. It is too odd.’

‘You would leave without a word if you thought you were about to be murdered and were running for your life.’

‘But why should he think such a thing? We have no evidence that he was afraid, or that he had discovered any dangerous secret.’

‘Perhaps he fled because he
is
the murderer, and he felt the net closing around him.’ Michael grimaced. While he did not much care for the bob-haired hosteller,
he felt the man had some redeeming qualities, and did not like to think of him as the killer. He would have preferred the
loathsome Robert or the gluttonous, selfish Thomas to be the culprit.

‘William as the killer means that he made good his escape last night, then returned today to dispatch Robert,’ said Bartholomew.
‘That does not make sense, even bearing in mind that they were bitter enemies.’

‘Perhaps William has not gone far,’ pressed Michael. ‘You are assuming that he has disappeared from the area, but perhaps
he is close by, and intends to continue his deadly work until we can stop him. I have already sent Meadowman and Cynric to
ask the people who live on the causeways whether they saw him leave the city.’

‘Good idea. But to continue with our list of people who have demonstrated curious behaviour, we also have Robert, whom Thomas
accused of being involved before he had his fit.’

‘But obviously
he
is not the killer. Meanwhile, in the guesthouse, we have Blanche and her retinue. Tysilia has some strange relationship
with William and knows more than she will tell, while you think Lady Blanche was in the Mermaid in the presence of gypsies,
although, not surprisingly, she denies it. I do not like that Father John, either, or his association with those rabble rousers.’

‘Not liking someone is no reason to include them on our
list of suspicious characters,’ said Bartholomew, smiling.

Michael grinned. ‘But it is satisfying to see them there.’

‘Going back to the priory, there are others we should keep an open mind about: there is Prior Alan, who must hate de Lisle
for being appointed to the See he thought was rightfully his. There is Symon, who seems as feckless and shifty a man as I
have ever encountered …’

‘You do not like him because he is a dismal librarian,’ observed Michael. ‘But there is that snivelling Julian, too. Yesterday,
I caught him filing a key into a viciously sharp point. Lord knows what he was planning to do with it.’

‘Henry says he has an obsession with sharp implements, so we should definitely retain him on our list of suspects.’

‘Could it really be that simple?’ asked Michael. ‘A boy with a deep-rooted desire to do harm and a love of sharp objects?’

‘And then there is Henry,’ said Bartholomew, lowering his voice as he resumed the list. ‘Do not forget that he has access
to sharp implements, too – a good many of them confiscated from Julian, I suspect, as well as his blood-letting devices.’

‘Henry could not have killed Robert,’ said Michael with a superior smile, knowing he could prove his point. ‘He was in the
library when that happened. I heard him moving around up there, and so did you, when Robert was in the vineyard having his
neck slit.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Henry can be discounted then. But your Bishop cannot. While he may not have wielded the knife
himself, it would not surprise me if he knows who did.’

‘But that does not explain why he instructed me to investigate,’ said Michael. ‘If he wanted the truth left undisturbed, he
should have asked someone sycophantic to investigate for him.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Brother, but in the past you have made no secret
of the fact that you might alter the truth in order
to achieve the verdict you want, and your Bishop is always delighted when things work to his satisfaction.’

‘But I am not prepared to overlook the murder of innocent people,’ objected Michael.

‘You might be if you considered hiding the truth was for the greater good. Both you and I have kept silent on matters in the
past, when we thought it was better people did not know the truth. For example, no one but us knows that the martyred Simon
d’Ambrey lies in Master Wilson’s grave in St Michael’s churchyard in Cambridge.’

‘That was different,’ said Michael. ‘Justice had been served, and we were merely tying up loose ends. Four murders are not
loose ends, and I would not be prepared to see a killer go unpunished for such crimes.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, still not certain that the monk would make public the facts of the case if
he felt it was inappropriate to do so. While he generally trusted Michael to do what was right, he felt the monk was somewhat
under the power of his Bishop, who might not do the same.

‘And on top of all our suspects, we have a clan of gypsies who appear at peculiar moments; we have a missing fisherman who
promised to tell us what we wanted to know but then fled; and we have talk of water-spirits and other such nonsense.’

Bartholomew stood. Henry was stirring in the hall. The infirmarian rubbed sleep from his eyes and went to kneel next to Thomas,
indicating with a tired nod to Bartholomew that he was ready to begin his vigil and that the physician was free to go.

‘There is only so much we can do by speculating,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We need some facts, and we will not find them
here. We must go out.’

‘Out?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Now? In the full heat of day? It was bad enough when we had to chase to the Quay. I am
not sure I am up to another foray under the blaze of the sun.’