A Summer of Discontent (38 page)

‘Ask about those gold coins, too,’ suggested Alan. ‘I would like to know how they got from the priory coffers to a sack in
the storehouse. They are definitely ours, because I recognise one or two irregularities in their minting.’

‘But it is obvious why they were in the granary and who put them there,’ stated de Lisle uncompromisingly. ‘William demanded
payments for various expenses he claimed he had incurred as hosteller, then secreted the coins away for his own use.’

‘Then why did he not take them with him when he fled?’ asked Bartholomew, sure the explanation was not this simple.

De Lisle did not like his opinions challenged. ‘Perhaps he forgot them. Or perhaps he intends to collect them later.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘William will not return to the priory he abandoned in such mysterious circumstances. And I doubt
whether a well-organised and efficient man like him
would have forgotten the small fortune carefully stashed away.’

‘Then perhaps he did not have room in his saddlebags for all his possessions,’ said de Lisle, becoming exasperated. ‘He seems
to have taken virtually everything else he owned.’

‘He does not own much anyway,’ said Alan. ‘Like me, he prefers to live a simple life, and has not accumulated a lot of personal
goods.’

Bartholomew glanced at the rings on Alan’s hands, and recalled the rugs and wall-hangings that decorated his chamber, before
turning his attention back to de Lisle. ‘I do not think that William would take a spare habit and a clean undershirt, but
leave a fortune in gold because there was no room for it. He would dispense with the clothes and take the gold instead.’

De Lisle glowered at him. ‘Well,
you
tell us what happened, then. You repudiate anything I suggest, so
you
explain how William’s gold came to be in the storehouse, apparently abandoned.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew. He saw de Lisle’s triumphant expression. ‘But I do not accept any of your reasons, either. Perhaps
William packed his possessions, then realised that he did not have time to retrieve the granary gold. Perhaps Thomas was near
the barn, receiving or delivering packages from unknown benefactors, and William was unable to enter it without being seen.’

‘He would have waited,’ said de Lisle immediately, determined that Bartholomew’s explanations should not escape criticism
either.

‘Perhaps he did not have time,’ suggested Michael. ‘But Matt is right: we are missing an important piece of this puzzle regarding
William and his coins. When we know
how
they came from William’s hands into the granary sack, I suspect we shall be on our way to solving that particular mystery.
And Alan is right, too: William really does not own much.’

Bartholomew and de Lisle both regarded him doubtfully.

‘He is a Benedictine,’ said de Lisle eventually.

Michael glared. ‘Not all of us flagrantly dispense with the rule of poverty, you know. And William, for all his faults, is
a man who is genuinely uninterested in material wealth.’

‘Robert was very interested in it, though,’ said Alan. ‘It pains me to tell you that since his death I have uncovered more
than enough evidence to demonstrate that
he
was stealing from the priory. But I do not believe that William is dishonest.’

‘How do you explain Thomas’s book being in company with William’s money?’ demanded de Lisle of Bartholomew, ignoring Alan
now that he had focused on someone to argue with. ‘And where did that chalice come from? Was it stolen from a church? I hope
it was not one in my See.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask the other monks, to see whether any of them recognise it. Did you, Father
Prior?’

‘I did not,’ said Alan. ‘But, as you know, I was a goldsmith before I took the cowl, and I appreciate fine work. That chalice
is exquisite. Whoever owns it should be proud.’

‘What about the book?’ asked Michael.

‘Again, it shows excellent workmanship, but I have never seen it before.’

‘I wonder if it is from the library,’ mused Bartholomew.

Alan smiled apologetically. ‘Unfortunately, our librarian’s records are poor in some areas, and just because something is
not listed does not mean we do not possess it. It could well be ours.’

‘Symon de Banneham,’ said de Lisle heavily. ‘Why you put a fellow like that in charge of your precious tomes is beyond my
understanding. The man can lay his hands on nothing I ask for, and invariably hides in the latrines when he thinks someone
might want to gain access to his territory.’

‘But he takes good care of our texts,’ argued Alan defensively.

‘Actually, he does not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He only likes the ones that sit neatly on shelves.’

‘Can none of your other brethren identify that book Michael found in the granary?’ asked de Lisle of Alan, impatient with
the digression. ‘It is a beautiful thing, and surely one of them must have come across it in his studies.’

‘Symon tends to restrict our access to the library, too,’ confessed Alan uneasily. ‘He says there are too many delicate volumes
that might be damaged by the casual or careless reader.’

‘What a crime!’ said Michael fervently. ‘Monks should be encouraged to study, not barred from it by the likes of Brother Symon.’

‘I would send them to you in Cambridge, if any of the community revealed an academic bent,’ said Alan mildly. ‘But Thomas
told me that no one warranted that sort of treatment.’

‘That is because Thomas was illiterate,’ said de Lisle bluntly. ‘He could barely write his own name, and how he managed the
business of sub-prior is totally beyond me. I suppose he had scribes to work for him. But still, some good will come of this.
You can now appoint a good man as your deputy.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Alan in alarm, as though fearful that he would not be able to meet such a challenge.

‘We should make a start, before anyone else dies,’ said Michael, raising his large arms in a weary stretch. ‘I will ask the
brethren about these treasures.’

‘I am not sure I fully understood everything that passed in there,’ said Bartholomew, walking quickly to catch up with Michael,
who was heading for the refectory, where he knew the monks would be massing. It was approaching the time for the midday meal,
and black-robed figures were already emerging from every nook and cranny. The deaths of Robert and Thomas, and the mysterious
absence of William, were apparently not matters that warranted any loss of appetite for or devotion to the priory’s rich fare
for most of the brethren.

Michael chortled at his friend’s confusion. ‘You understood
a good deal more than Alan did. What do you think you missed?’

‘Are we to understand that the basis of this feud between de Lisle and Blanche is an ancient love affair that turned sour?’

Michael chuckled a second time. ‘It did more than turn sour, Matt: it produced Tysilia. Apparently, Blanche did all she could
to rid herself of the brat before she married the Earl of Lancaster, but nothing worked. She produced a baby girl, despite
her best attempts not to do so.’

‘I wonder if those attempts resulted in the impairment of Tysilia’s mind,’ mused Bartholomew, intrigued by the possibility.
‘It would certainly explain why she is not normal.’

‘Blanche foisted the child on de Lisle as soon as she could, then went about her business with the Earl.’

‘And the Earl did not notice that his allegedly virgin wife had recently been delivered of a child?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.
‘I know that most courtiers dwell in worlds of their own, and that their views of reality are somewhat different from those
of the rest of us, but it would be astonishing if that little detail slipped past him.’

‘The union between the Earl and Blanche produced no heirs,’ replied Michael ambiguously, giving Bartholomew a meaningful wink.
‘And we know that was no fault of Blanche’s, given that she was able to produce healthy babies for amorous clerics.’

‘You think she did not produce any heirs for Lancaster because he discovered she had already provided someone else with one?’

Michael sighed, impatient with his slow wits. ‘No. You must remember that Lancaster was a member of the court of Edward the
Second, and that Edward preferred men to women. It is generally believed that Lancaster never consummated his marriage with
Blanche. When he died of the plague, all his possessions went to his sister. That partly explains Blanche’s bitterness.’

‘The fact that her marriage was unconsummated, that she
lost her husband to the pestilence, or that she lost her possessions to her sister-in-law?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘The last, of course,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Blanche went from being the wife of one of the richest landowners in the
country to being a widow with little property of her own – and that is why what she does own is important to her. De Lisle
should not have set fire to her cottages at Colne.’

‘Well, all this is irrelevant anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What the Duchess did with the Bishop more than two decades ago can
hardly have any bearing on this case.’

‘Never dismiss anything, Matt,’ lectured Michael. ‘Who knows where this trail of murders may lead us? But the cooks are only
just carrying the food from the kitchens, so it will be some time before it is ready for eating. Walk with me to the cathedral.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. A long queue was forming outside the refectory, and Michael was usually not a man who
walked away from a meal that was about to be served.

‘Because I want to think more about Thomas’s death before we tackle any suspects. And because I want to see whether pilgrims
are still being charged three pennies for access to St Etheldreda’s shrine. It was Robert’s idea, and I was wondering whether
his death has resulted in the lifting of the levy.’

‘It is grotesque,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘I know it is customary for pilgrims to leave gifts at shrines, but they are
for the saint, not for the monks who tend them. And I have never heard of a fixed fee imposed before.’

‘Nor me,’ said Michael. ‘I was surprised that Alan allowed it. But then I saw the amount of money the priory makes from the
levy, and I suppose natural greed stepped in. Alan is a good man, but he is blind to everything when it comes to financing
his buildings.’

They entered the cloister, where the shade and coldness of stone was a welcome pleasure after the heat of the noonday sun.
Delicate tracery cast intricate patterns of
shadow and light on the flagstones, while in the centre of the courtyard the gurgle of water from the fountain that supplied
the lavatorium was a restful and pleasing sound. A dove cooed on the tiled roof above, and Bartholomew caught the scent of
baking bread wafting from the kitchens. It seemed inconceivable that murder should have entered such a haven of tranquillity
and beauty.

‘You know, Matt, even our exalted ringside view of Thomas’s murder has not left us with any decent clues.’ Michael sounded
exasperated and dispirited.

Bartholomew understood how he felt. ‘Although we saw Alan, Symon, Welles and Julian enter the infirmary via the Dark Cloister,
anyone else could have entered through the rear door, knowing that we were being detained by an irate prelate and his grubby
steward.’

‘Well, at least we know de Lisle is innocent of Thomas’s murder. He was with us when Thomas died, and so could not possibly
be the culprit.’

‘That is not necessarily true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘We have no idea when Thomas died. For all we know, Henry
could have dropped off to sleep the moment we left for the refectory, leaving all of breakfast time free for the killer to
strike. De Lisle may have killed him while we ate, then returned later to the Dark Cloister to berate you for sluggish investigating.’

‘So, it may be wholly irrelevant that we saw various monks enter the infirmary?’ asked Michael despondently.

‘Yes. Thomas’s breathing was shallow – so shallow that Henry was obliged to fetch a glass to see if he lived, while I had
to press my ear against his chest at least twice during the night. A casual glance would not tell anyone whether he was dead
or alive, and so we cannot read anything into the fact that Symon, Alan, and the novices failed to raise the alarm.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I was hoping we might be able to eliminate at least someone from our list of suspects.’

‘We can. Henry.’

‘He was never on my list,’ said Michael. ‘Henry is no killer. But why are you suddenly so sure? I would have thought he was
suspect in your eyes because he was alone with Thomas for a good part of the night and this morning.’

‘True. But if Henry were the killer, he would have chosen a time when he would not be the obvious suspect.’

‘So, what convinces you of his innocence now?’

‘The saliva Alan mentioned, basically. Drooling often occurs when someone is in a particularly deep sleep or an awkward position
– and Henry was in both. Also, the amount of saliva present on the desk suggests that Henry was dozing for some time. It is
not the kind of detail anyone would think to fabricate – even a cunning fellow like our killer. I might have suggested that
Henry feigned sleep in order to excuse his presence in the infirmary when Thomas was murdered. But the drool is a fairly iron-clad
alibi.’

‘Thomas was definitely alive after prime – we have your testimony for that. Henry would not have needed to risk dispatching
Thomas this morning, with all these visitors traipsing in and out of the infirmary, when he could have selected a safer time
at his leisure.’

‘He probably would not have stabbed Thomas, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘There are other ways to kill that are far easier
to conceal, not to mention the fact that no physician likes to lose a patient in his own hospital.’

‘We will ask the old men whether they saw anything,’ said Michael. ‘They will know whether Henry was asleep or prowling around.’

‘Then you had better hope Roger was awake. You will not get much from any of the others. Another thing you need to bear in
mind is that Thomas’s murder may have been someone copying the killer’s methods. Remember how I said I thought Julian might
well want to test how it worked? Even if we solve Thomas’s murder, it may not give us the identity of the man who killed the
others.’