A Summer of Discontent (41 page)

Henry glanced at it, but then said, ‘I am always too busy to read anything except medical texts on the rare occasions that
I persuade Symon to allow me into his domain.’

‘Could you have seen it outside the library?’ pressed Michael.

Henry looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. All the priory’s books are locked up and Symon does not allow them out. Books are far
too valuable to be left lying around, as I am sure you know.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Michael loftily. ‘I am a University scholar and well aware of the value of books. But could this particular
tome have been in the dormitory, among the personal possessions of any of your fellow brethren?’

‘I would not know that, either,’ said Henry helplessly. ‘I sleep here, with my patients, not in the dormitory. And I am not
in the habit of rooting through my colleagues’ belongings, anyway.’

‘We are Benedictines,’ said Julian piously. ‘We do not have many possessions.’

‘We can debate Benedictine wealth another time,’ said Michael quickly, seeing Bartholomew ready to argue. He handed Henry
the cup. ‘What about this?’

‘No,’ said Henry, glancing at it without much interest.
‘Does it belong to the cathedral?’

‘Alan says not,’ said Michael.

‘He is right,’ said Julian, taking the cup from Henry and turning it in his hands. His touch was more covetous than curious,
and Bartholomew thought that if it went missing, Julian would be the first person to question about its whereabouts.

‘How would you know?’ demanded Michael, snatching it back from him.

‘I was an altar boy before I became a novice,’ explained Julian. ‘But I have never seen this particular piece before.’

‘All right,’ said Michael, replacing the book and chalice inside the sack. ‘Now, I want you both to tell me
exactly
what happened when Thomas died.’

‘Again, Brother?’ asked Henry, his voice husky with tiredness. ‘It is a painful memory, and I would rather put it from my
mind.’

‘And I am sleepy from the heat,’ added Julian. ‘I need my afternoon doze. Can we not do this later?’

‘Murder is not something that waits on sleeping times,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I shall allow you to tell me your
story first, and then you can escape, since you seem more interested in that than in justice.’

Julian bridled, but began his story. ‘I left the refectory with Welles and came here. He said he was going to buy fruit, while
I went straight to the herb room. That is one of the two small chambers at the opposite end of the hall to where Thomas was
lying and Henry was sleeping.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently, seeing Henry wince. ‘We all know what the infirmary looks like: there is the hall where
the old men live; at one end is the workshop with the herb room beyond, and at the other end are the two chambers where you
and Henry sleep.’

‘Thomas was in one of those,’ said Bartholomew for clarification. ‘In other words, the hall
and
the workshop were between Julian and Thomas.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Julian. ‘So I heard and saw nothing. I was
busy crushing saffron, anyway. I had the door closed, so that the noise would not disturb the patients.’

‘I taught him to do that,’ said Henry to Michael. ‘We always keep the doors closed when we are making medicines. However,
the door between my chamber and Thomas’s was open so that I could hear him if he called out, but the killer must have come
in stockinged feet. I do not sleep heavily.’

‘But you were exhausted,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Perhaps under normal circumstances you might have woken, but you had had
several bad nights, and you had worked hard to try to save Thomas. In any case, the floor is stone, and so it is easy to walk
silently.’

‘That is usually a good thing,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘It would not do to have creaking floorboards every time I tend a patient
during the night.’

‘The killer must have felt himself blessed indeed,’ mused Michael. ‘Welles at the market, Julian in the herb room, and Henry
in an exhausted slumber and uncharacteristically deaf. Perhaps one of the old men heard something.’

‘You can try asking,’ said Henry, although he did not sound hopeful. ‘One is deaf, two are blind, and none is in his right
wits. Even Roger’s mind wanders from time to time, and he is the most lively of them all.’

‘Matt can talk to them, while I visit Blanche,’ said Michael. ‘Continue with your tale, Julian. You were in the herb room,
chopping saffron.’

‘I was there from just after breakfast.’ Julian showed them orange-stained hands. ‘Henry did not need me to sit with Thomas,
although I offered.’

‘I could not trust you,’ said Henry, for once critical of the novice he was determined to save. ‘You are not good at anticipating
a patient’s needs, and you might have fallen asleep.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Julian shot back.

Henry fell silent.

‘Did you hear or see anything that might help us?’ asked Michael of Julian. He stepped closer, and there was more
menace in the question than was necessary. Julian edged away, but Bartholomew moved behind him, deliberately making the lad
feel there was no escape. Bartholomew considered Julian a wholly loathsome specimen, and hoped Michael’s questioning would
put the fear of God into him.

‘No,’ said Julian desperately. ‘I told you. I was crushing saffron, which involves using a pestle and mortar and is fairly
noisy. And the door was closed. There is a window, but my back was to it. I heard and saw nothing until Welles came. By then,
Thomas had been declared dead and he and I were ordered to wash the body.’

‘You did not hear me arrive and examine Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ said Julian. ‘To be frank, crushing saffron is so tedious that I had lulled myself into a sort of working drowse. I
heard nothing.’

Bartholomew believed him. He was certain that the lad would have grabbed any opportunity to escape the boring task he had
been set, and would have come running had he heard the commotion when it was discovered that Thomas’s death had not been natural
– unless, of course, he knew perfectly well the cause of the upheaval and elected to keep his distance from the scene of his
crime.

‘Welles,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see him leave the infirmary before you went to the herb room?’

‘No,’ said Julian. ‘I went to the herb room first, while he poked about in the workshop looking for his basket. He was still
searching for it when I closed the herb-room door.’

‘Has anyone else visited the infirmary today?’ asked Michael, exchanging a quick glance with Bartholomew. Welles, it seemed,
should be questioned once again. ‘Did anyone, other than us, come to see Thomas?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew recommended that no visitors be allowed,’ said Julian. ‘But that is not to say that everyone would have
obeyed him. As I said, my back was to the window, so I did not notice. But Thomas’s illness caused much interest in the priory
– lots of folk wanted to look at
him. Who knows who may have sneaked in while Henry dozed?’

‘Did you see Prior Alan come in?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No!’ cried Julian, becoming exasperated. ‘How many more times must I tell you? I saw no one. The window is at an awkward
angle for looking at either of the doors anyway – the main one leading from the Dark Cloister, or the back one.’

‘Someone
could
have entered through the rear door,’ suggested Henry. ‘It is well oiled, because I do not want creaks and groans disturbing
my patients, so it would have been easy to slip in. Poor Thomas!’

‘All this does suggest that the killer is a monk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone was aware that he had a very close call when
Thomas was on the verge of telling what he knew, and that same someone was familiar with the layout of the infirmary, so he
was able to kill Thomas without being seen or heard.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘News of Thomas’s seizure and its implications spread through the city very quickly, and
many Ely folk visit Henry in the infirmary. It is the one place in the priory that the townsfolk do know. Also, I think that
a monk would have struck when Thomas was first taken ill. He would not have waited a day.’

‘But there was no opportunity to do that until this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A monk – or someone else – could have been
waiting hours for the best moment to strike.’

‘He did wait for the right moment,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I had been sitting next to Thomas, holding his hand and praying
for him. I whispered that I was just going to attend to some business, but that I would only be next door and would hear him
if he wanted me.’

‘Perhaps the killer heard you saying that, too,’ mused Michael.

‘How could he?’ asked Henry in alarm. ‘Do you think he was hiding under the bed all that time? Or in a cupboard?’

‘No, but he may have been outside a window. The weather is hot, and all the shutters are open to allow a breeze to circulate.
The killer could well have been crouching outside in the bushes, listening to you comforting Thomas, and biding his time.’

‘And then I basically announced to the fiend that I was leaving, and that he could kill Thomas at his leisure,’ said Henry
in disgust. ‘How could I have been so foolish?’

‘You were not foolish,’ said Michael gently. ‘You just do not think like a killer – thank God! But the day is drawing on.
Unfortunately, nothing you have told us throws any light on the killer’s identity, although at least we know how he managed
to commit his crime unseen. So, I will go to ask Blanche and her household whether this is her cup, while Matt can question
the old men.’

‘You should come with me,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘They may have seen something, and you should hear what they have to say
at first hand.’

Michael sighed when, without asking permission, Julian hurried away, presumably to take his nap. Henry came with them, trailing
unhappily. Bartholomew supposed there was nothing they could say or do that would convince the physician that Thomas’s death
was not his fault and that the sub-prior had been doomed as soon as he had indicated he was party to some dangerous information.

Three of the inmates seemed barely aware that they were alive, and turned blank eyes on Bartholomew when he spoke to them.
One of them was also blind, and his opaque eyes could not make out the bed next to him, let alone identify a murderer slipping
through the shadows. Meanwhile, Ynys was having a bad day, and imagined himself to be at the battle of Bannockburn, desperate
to know if the rumours were true that the English had been routed by the Scots.

‘The Scots would never gain the better of an Englishman,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly, conveniently forgetting that
the Scots had scored a significant victory over the
armies of the English king some forty years previously.

Ynys was greatly relieved, but asked the same question again moments later, having already forgotten Michael’s assurances.
Michael regarded him warily, then turned his attention to Roger. The old man smiled when Bartholomew approached him, revealing
pink gums and evidently anticipating a pleasant diversion from the monotony of his days in bed.

‘How did Thomas die?’ he asked in a voice that quivered with age. ‘Did someone poison him at his trough? I saw his giant corpse
carried away mid-morning.’

‘He had a seizure,’ said Bartholomew. Roger craned forward, cupping one hand around his ear. ‘HE HAD A SEIZURE.’

‘I wonder why Roger assumed someone had poisoned Thomas,’ said Michael, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I recall young Bukton saying
the same thing when Thomas first became ill.’

‘He had a seizure,’ said Roger, nodding in what seemed to be satisfaction. ‘It serves him right. Doubtless God struck him
down while he gorged himself without a thought for others.’

‘What do you mean?’ yelled Bartholomew.

‘He intercepted the cooks when they brought our meals from the kitchens, and took our food for himself. He was a greedy man.
You will have to do a lot of praying if you ever want
him
to escape from Purgatory. I will not.’

‘I know you caught him once, but I do not think that was a regular occurrence,’ said Henry apologetically to Bartholomew.
‘The poor man was probably hungry, and acted on impulse.’

‘I am not sure—’ began Bartholomew, not wanting to malign a man who was not in a position to defend himself, but certain Thomas’s
penchant for the patients’ dinners had been fairly frequent.

‘I saw him through the window,’ interrupted Roger. ‘I watched the cooks pass him steaming pots to bring to us. Those were
the days we ate cheese rinds and stale bread.’

‘But you did not tell me,’ said Henry, agitated. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

‘I told Julian,’ said Roger. ‘I did not want to bother a busy man like you with a trivial matter like our dinners. Julian
did nothing, of course. The boy is worthless.’

‘Never mind all this,’ said Michael, casually overlooking the fact that
he
would not have been so sanguine had it been his own food that had been purloined by the sub-prior. ‘I want to know whether
Roger saw anything that might help us regarding Thomas. Ask him, Matt.’

‘He is deaf, Brother,’ said Henry reproachfully. ‘That does not mean he is a half-wit. If you have questions, ask them yourself.
Just speak loudly and clearly.’

‘Did you see anything unusual around the time when Thomas was killed?’ Michael shouted, loud enough to frighten Ynys, who
demanded his horse and armour.

‘Eh?’ asked Roger.

‘DID YOU SEE HOW HE DIED?’ howled Michael, making his voice crack.

‘Did I see his eyes?’ asked Roger. ‘I wish I had! I would have liked to have seen him aware that it was his Judgement Day.
He would have known that there was not much hope for his soul after all his years of gluttony.’

‘Thomas did have a reputation as a man who would do anything for his stomach,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I do not think that alone
will send him to Hell.’

‘Speak up!’ snapped Roger. ‘I cannot hear when you whisper.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Henry, patting the old man’s blue-veined hand.