A Summer of Discontent (36 page)

Welles and Julian exchanged a glance, then turned back to their preparations wordlessly. Bartholomew was suddenly aware that
the paring knife had disappeared.

‘Where is that blade?’ he demanded, looking hard at Julian. ‘It was here a moment ago.’

Julian stared back at him insolently, and did not reply.

Henry sighed. ‘Put it back, Julian. You know you are not allowed knives.’

‘I do not have it,’ said Julian, in a way that made Bartholomew sure that he did. ‘I finished using it and I replaced it on
the table. You can search me if you like.’ He raised his arms above his head, inviting any interested parties to run their
hands down his person. No one took him up on the offer.

‘I expect it will reappear after breakfast,’ said Henry, eyeing Julian minutely. ‘And then we shall say no more about it.
But we must give my old friends their food, before it goes completely cold.’ He watched Julian and Welles carry the bowls
of oatmeal to the hall, and then turned to Symon. ‘Did you want anything in particular, Brother, or are you here to avoid
watching Bukton labouring in the library, lest you feel compelled to help him?’

Bartholomew glanced at the infirmarian in surprise. Henry was not usually sharp-tongued. Indeed, he had the patience of a
saint when dealing with people Bartholomew regarded as unworthy of such courtesy. Symon did not appear to notice the insult,
however.

‘I came to see Thomas, actually,’ he said, reaching out for another fruit, but having second thoughts when Henry wielded a
ladle at him in a rather menacing fashion. ‘Is he still with us?’

‘As you see,’ said Henry, gesturing to the monstrous mound of flesh in the chamber at the far end of the hall. ‘He needs all
our prayers, but it is best that we restrict visitors for now. Do you want to pray for him in the chapel?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Symon, sounding disappointed. Bartholomew was unsure if the librarian was sorry that he was not allowed
to pass the time of day with the ailing sub-prior, or sorry that Thomas was still in the land of the living. He found himself
speculating on why Symon should wish the obese Thomas dead, when an illiterate sub-prior and a secretive and elusive librarian
would probably have had little cause for contact.

Another bang from upstairs made the librarian wince, although he made no move to leave.

Henry picked up a tray containing five small dishes of the honeyed fruit and a basket of bread. ‘You should see to your books,
Brother,’ he recommended as a third crash rattled the bottles on his shelves.

Symon nodded reluctantly. Still casting curious backward glances at the sub-prior on his sickbed, he left and
Bartholomew heard his footsteps ascending the wooden stairs that led to his domain. Henry heaved a sigh of relief that his
voyeuristic guest had gone, then smiled when Bartholomew took another tray containing jugs of breakfast ale.

‘I imagine Symon will not be the only one to come here today, anxious to see for himself the miserable state of our poor sub-prior.
Thomas is not a kind man, and few monks who were novices here have cause to remember him fondly.’

‘So Michael mentioned. And Bukton told me that little has changed since then. Thomas is still unpopular with the priory’s
youngsters.’

‘Sometimes grave sicknesses change men’s lives,’ said Henry, walking into the infirmary to supervise Julian and Welles as
they distributed the oatmeal. ‘Perhaps that will happen to Thomas, if he recovers.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, who thought Thomas too thoroughly reprehensible to be a candidate for Damascus Road life changes.
When he happened to glance back at the workbench, he saw the paring knife had been replaced.

When the old men had been fed – and Bartholomew had ensured that Henry had eaten a little, too – the physician went to the
refectory to join the brethren for his own breakfast. He almost collided with Symon, who was hovering near the chapel door,
craning his neck to see Thomas and apparently unable to resist the attraction of seeing a mighty man felled. Bartholomew made
a point of waiting for him, unwilling to allow the man’s macabre presence to distress either Henry or the old men, and they
made uncomfortable, desultory conversation as they walked together to the refectory. They were overtaken by Welles, Julian
and Bukton, released from their duties by the ringing of the breakfast bell. The three lads pushed and shoved each other playfully
as they raced towards their meal.

When Bartholomew arrived, Michael was already there, rolling up his sleeves in anticipation of some serious snatching and
grabbing, although the competition had been
severely reduced at the high table that morning. Empty spaces gaped where Thomas, Robert and William usually sat, while Henry
had asked to be excused so that he could remain with his patients. Alan presided, but was distracted and careworn, and ate
little of the sumptuous meal provided by the kitchens.

‘Is Thomas awake?’ the Prior asked anxiously, seeing that Bartholomew was to join them for the meal. ‘Has he regained his
speech yet?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although he rested well last night, which is a good sign.’

‘But he has not spoken?’ pressed Symon, very interested. ‘He remains mute?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he may regain that power today. Why do you ask?’

‘No particular reason,’ said Symon, with a careless shrug. ‘I was merely voicing concern for one of my brethren.’

Alan mumbled a hasty grace, and Bartholomew turned his attention to some of the best oatmeal he had ever consumed, despite
the fact that the cooks seemed to have ladled salt into it with a shovel. He wondered whether the monks liked it salty because
it made them want to drink more ale.

In contrast to the unease and awkwardness among the few remaining occupants of the high table, the main body of the refectory
exuded an atmosphere of relaxed jollity. It was not only the novices who appeared to be happy and hopeful, but many of the
older monks, too, and Bartholomew sensed that the trio of sub-prior, almoner and hosteller had done little to create a pleasant
environment in the monastery and much to repress one. Welles and Bukton smiled and laughed, while Julian was positively jubilant.
Bartholomew watched Julian closely as he ate, thinking that there was something unsettling about the lad’s bright eyes and
flushed cheeks. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the incident regarding the paring knife, or whether Julian,
like the other monks, was merely grateful to be free of Thomas’s looming presence for a while.

After the meal, which seemed unusually protracted that morning – mostly because he wanted to escape the uncomfortable company
at the high table – Bartholomew walked with Michael back to the infirmary, to see whether Thomas was awake. Now that the day
was wearing on, Michael was anxious to ask him about the contents of the grain sack they had discovered the night before.

Symon had left the refectory before them, and set off in the direction of his domain, arms swinging and feet stamping with
military precision. Because Bartholomew had spent some time over the past few days tracking Symon in order to be admitted
to the library, he was familiar with the man’s habits. He knew Symon always took the longer path, through the gardens and
around the eastern end of the hospital chapel. This route was invariably deserted, and he guessed that Symon preferred it
because he was unlikely to run into anyone who might ask him for a book.

However, that morning Symon’s ghoulish fascination with Thomas led him to abandon custom and stride instead towards the Dark
Cloister, which would mean a diversion through the infirmary itself. Bartholomew saw him disappear inside, presumably to walk
through the hall and then leave via the rear door in order to reach the library from the cemetery.

Michael grimaced. ‘There is nothing like the downfall of an unpopular man to bring out the worst in people. Symon
never
uses the infirmary as a shortcut to the library, and is only doing so today so that he can gloat over Thomas’s predicament.’

‘I hope no one ever views any illness of mine as an excuse for entertainment and celebration,’ said Bartholomew distastefully.

‘You would have to go a long way before you attained Thomas’s standards,’ replied Michael. He stopped suddenly, and Bartholomew
saw that de Lisle was hurrying towards them from the chapter house, his steward at his heels like a faithful hound. He sighed.
‘Damn! I hope he does not
detain us for long. I want to question Thomas as soon as possible.’

‘Then you can deal with de Lisle and I will talk to Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, starting to walk away. De Lisle, however, had
other ideas, and his haughty summons clearly included the physician, and well as his agent.

‘Any news?’ asked the Bishop immediately. ‘What do you plan to do today to bring about my release from these charges?’

He listened intently while Michael described their findings in the granary and their plans to walk upriver to see whether
they could find the place where Glovere and the others were murdered. He seemed disappointed by the lack of progress, while
Ralph was openly disgusted by it. He bared his blackened teeth in a sneer of contempt, and Bartholomew turned away, so that
he would not have to look at the man. As he did so, he saw Julian slinking into the infirmary, dragging his heels and evidently
reluctant to resume his daily duties. Welles was not long in following, although he seemed more enthusiastic than his friend.
He waved cheerfully to Bartholomew as he disappeared inside.

De Lisle had no more idea how to speed up the investigation than did Michael, but that did not prevent him from making all
manner of impractical suggestions. Michael listened patiently while the Bishop recommended arresting Blanche’s entire household
and holding them until one of them confessed, followed by an illogical analysis of the reasons why the missing William was
at the heart of everything, aided and abetted by the now-dead Robert.

The interview came to an end when the agitated prelate abruptly spun around and began to stalk towards the cathedral, muttering
under his breath that since Michael did not seem able to prove his innocence, he would have to petition the help of St Etheldreda.
A handsome ruby ring, he claimed, would be hers if she came to his rescue. Prior Alan overheard as he passed them on his way
to the infirmary, and shook his head to show what
he
thought of the notion
that saints could be bribed with baubles. Bartholomew and Michael were about to follow Alan, when the monk became aware that
Ralph had fastened his dirty claw on to the fine fabric of his habit.

‘You need to do more than stroll up the river today,’ said the steward unpleasantly, not relinquishing his hold even though
Michael glared angrily at him. ‘My Bishop is not a wealthy man, and he cannot afford to stay in Ely much longer. He needs
to visit other people, so that they are obliged to house and feed his retinue. You must dismiss this case so he can go about
his business before he is bankrupt.’

‘I assure you, I know that,’ said Michael, knocking the filthy hand from his sleeve in distaste. ‘And I am doing the best
I can. He – and you – must be patient. The truth is not something you can just summon to appear. It must be teased out carefully,
and each fact properly analysed.’

‘Bugger the truth,’ said Ralph vehemently. ‘I said you should dismiss the case, not mess around with irrelevant details.’

Michael regarded the steward disapprovingly. ‘You are an ignorant man, and so you cannot know what you are saying. The Bishop
must be totally exonerated from these charges, or they will haunt him for the rest of his life. The verdict must be the truth.
Nothing else will do.’

He turned away, but Ralph was not so easily dismissed. He delivered his own little lecture about loyalty and trust, to which
Michael listened with barely concealed astonishment at such impudence. When Ralph saw that his homily was not inspiring Michael
to go out and declare the Bishop’s innocence by any means necessary, he gave up in disgust and followed his master to the
cathedral.

‘He is a nasty little man,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He thinks he is the only one capable of serving de Lisle, just
because he has done it for longer than anyone else.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He must be a saint.’

‘Which of them?’ asked Michael. ‘De Lisle for putting up with that horrid little worm, or Ralph for selling his soul to
de Lisle? But come, Matt. We cannot stand here all day chatting to whoever happens to come past. We have a killer to catch.’

But before they reached the door of the infirmary, Henry emerged and started to walk towards the cathedral. His shoulders
slumped with tiredness, and he grimaced at the brightness of the sun in his eyes.

‘How is Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled that the infirmarian should leave when he had a seriously ill patient to tend.

‘He slipped away in his sleep – between the time you left and a few moments ago,’ said Henry with a catch in his voice. He
saw Michael’s face fall, and mistook the monk’s dismay for grief. ‘I am sorry, Michael. Bartholomew and I did all we could,
but old, fat men are prone to such attacks, and death is not infrequent. In my experience this appeared to be a serious episode,
and I doubt he would ever have recovered his faculties fully. It is better this way.’

‘Damn!’ swore Michael vehemently. ‘If we had not dawdled here, listening to de Lisle and Ralph ranting on about nothing, we
might have been able to talk to Thomas before he died.’

‘I do not think he ever woke,’ said Henry wearily. ‘And even though you are my friend, and I know how hard de Lisle is pushing
you to prove him innocent of murder, I would not have allowed you to disturb Thomas with potentially distressing questions.’

‘I am surprised he died this morning, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When he survived the night, I thought he was through the
worst.’

‘I hoped so, too,’ said Henry. ‘But yesterday’s seizure was long and violent. To be frank, I thought he would slip away in
his sleep last night. I was astonished that he still lived when I relieved you of the vigil at dawn.’