A Summer of Discontent (45 page)

‘How do you know he is only one man? We have always assumed it is a single person, but there is nothing to confirm that we
are right. It could be a group of men, all armed to the teeth, and with a good deal more experience of fulfilling their murderous
intentions than either of us.’

‘I do not think so. Our killer works alone.’

‘And how are you suddenly so certain, pray?’

‘Simple logic, Brother. If there were two or more, working together, then one would hold the victim still while the other
did the cutting. The grazing on the face and ear indicates that the victims were held down by means of a foot or a knee on
their heads. There would be no reason to use feet and knees while there were hands to spare.
Ergo
, these murders look like the work of a single man.’

‘And you are prepared to stake your life on this reasoning?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘We have no choice. At the very least we have to investigate. We have been bemoaning the fact that the mystery seems to deepen
with every fact we uncover, but here is an opportunity to catch the man himself.’

‘Of course, whatever we uncover in there might have nothing to do with the killer,’ Michael pointed out. ‘It could be someone
with an unnatural penchant for bones in the dark.’

‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And in that case, we have nothing to fear.’

‘Nothing much!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I do not want to catch that sort of person red-handed, thank you very much. He would probably
try to kill us just to keep his foul obsession a secret.’

Tapping Michael sharply on the shoulder to give him encouragement, the physician began to edge towards the
Bone House, taking care to tread carefully and to keep to the shadows. As they moved, he saw the flicker at the upper window
a third time, and suspected that someone was walking back and forth, carrying a candle. It could not have provided much light,
because the glimmer at the bottom of the window shutter was very slight and would not have been seen by anyone unless he happened
to be looking at the Bone House at fairly close quarters. Whoever was inside doubtless imagined himself perfectly safe from
discovery.

‘How many doors does this place have?’ whispered Bartholomew.

‘One, of course,’ replied Michael scornfully. ‘It is not somewhere that requires multiple entrances and exits.’

‘And how many windows?’

‘I do not know,’ whispered Michael crossly. ‘Two, I suppose – one on the upper floor, and one on the lower. But you have been
in there yourself. Why are you asking me?’

‘It is your priory. You know it better than me.’ Bartholomew stood back to assess the building, piecing together what he could
see with what he remembered. ‘Does it comprise a single chamber on the ground floor with a ladder leading to a single loft
on the upper floor?’

‘I have only been inside it once and that was with you,’ grumbled Michael. ‘But yes, I think so. The bones are on the ground
floor, while the loft is probably empty.’

‘Except for whoever is up there at the moment. I will go in through the door, while you stand at this corner and make sure
that no one escapes through either window.’ He unlooped his medical bag from his shoulder and removed his heavy childbirth
forceps, holding them in his right hand, as he would a club. Then he stuck one of his surgical knives in his belt.

‘Are you insane?’ demanded Michael, eyeing his preparations in alarm. ‘I was right in the first place: we should not do this
alone. If we fail, the consequences do not bear thinking about. We cannot afford to let this man – or these
men – escape and continue the bloody work.’

‘But he may be gone by the time we fetch Cynric and Meadowman,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And it would be a terrible thing to
let this opportunity pass.’

‘It will be no opportunity at all if we are the next victims!’

‘But there may
be
no more victims if we can catch him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We cannot risk him escaping now we have him cornered.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, clearly reluctant. ‘But I am not staying out here alone. Hand me that spade. If I encounter anyone
inside, who so much as moves, I shall knock his brains out with it.’

He grasped the stout spade that leaned against the wall of the Bone House, and prepared to follow Bartholomew inside. The
physician reached out and silently unlatched the door. As it swung open to reveal the black maw of the charnel house, he began
to have second thoughts himself about the wisdom of the plan. Michael was almost certainly right about the killer’s cold ruthlessness,
and they should have Cynric and Meadowman with them. He turned to admit as much to the monk, but Michael prodded him in the
back, urging him to go ahead before he lost his nerve. Taking a deep breath that was tinged with the musty, wet smell of rotting
bone, Bartholomew took a step forward into the house of the dead.

Inside the Bone House, the darkness was absolute after the starlight. Bartholomew and Michael waited for a few moments until
their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The skulls still sat in their eerie rows on shelves, and the dark mass of the pile
of long bones could be seen on one side. To the other was the barrel that contained fragments of fingers, toes and crania.

Bartholomew peered around him, ignoring the dead inhabitants of the room and looking for its living occupant. He exchanged
a glance with Michael, and then nodded to the ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upper
floor. Michael shook his head vehemently, indicating that they should wait until whoever it was came down. Bartholomew hesitated,
then nodded agreement. It would be difficult to climb a creaking ladder undetected, and the killer would merely strike at
his head as soon as he was high enough. Michael was right: if they waited, then they would have the advantage. Treading silently,
he eased into the darkest shadows with Michael next to him.

It seemed that whoever was upstairs had not detected their presence. They could hear his feet on the boards of the floor as
he moved. Bartholomew shivered, suddenly chilled in the dankness. The walls were of wood, but they were thick, to keep their
contents from the unwelcome attentions of dogs. The bones had been dug from damp earth, so there was a musty wetness in the
atmosphere that was oppressive. Something dripped on his shoulder, and he imagined that while the walls were strong, the thatched
roof was in a poor condition. Since the purpose of the Bone House was to deter animals that might make off with the bones,
no one would be overly concerned about a leaking roof.

He and Michael waited in the shadows for what seemed like an age. The physician’s legs and back began to grow stiff from standing,
and the drowsiness he had experienced earlier returned. If he had been sitting down, he would have fallen asleep. Next to
him, Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew wondered whether he should send the monk to fetch Cynric and Meadowman
after all. When he whispered the suggestion into Michael’s ear, the monk shook his head vehemently. Although he sensed that
they were making a mistake, Bartholomew was grateful for the reassuring presence of Michael at his side. A second drip of
water from the roof above was loud in the silence.

Humans, living and dead, were not the only species that inhabited the Bone House. Tiny claws skittered across the floor and
rustled in and out of the bones. While the thick walls kept out larger scavengers, rats had found gaps in the
planking and had insinuated themselves inside. Bartholomew closed his eyes and listened, certain he could hear small teeth
crunching.

After an eternity, there was increased activity from the floor above. The footsteps moved clear across the floor, and then
someone began to descend the ladder. He carried a candle, and was moving cautiously, as if wary of falling. Bartholomew made
out a pair of feet, then a swinging cloak that hid the clothes that were worn beneath. He strained his eyes, trying to determine
whether he knew the person, and whether a monastic habit or secular clothes were being worn. But it was too dark, even with
the candle, and Bartholomew could only make out the vaguest of shapes. When the person was halfway down the stairs, Bartholomew
jumped in alarm as Michael issued a shriek of victory and dashed from his hiding place to make a grab for the mysterious figure.

If Bartholomew jumped in alarm, his reaction was mild to that of the man on the steps. He jolted violently, lost his grip
and fell. The candle cartwheeled downwards and landed on the dirty blanket that had recently been used to cover Glovere’s
body. The cover began to smoulder, releasing an unsteady, flickering light into the gloomy room.

Michael had anticipated hauling the man down by force, and was not ready for the sudden release of weight. He tumbled to the
floor with the man on top of him. Recovering from his fright, Bartholomew sprang to the monk’s aid. The fellow on the ground
struggled furiously, lashing out with his fists. Bartholomew heard the sharp crack of knuckles contacting nastily with bone,
followed by a yelp of pain from Michael. He seized the man by a handful of his cloak and wrenched him away from the monk,
who was on his knees with one hand fastened firmly to his nose.

The man stumbled over the pile of long bones, and when he straightened up again he held a femur. Bartholomew, his forceps
at the ready, parried the first blow with ease, hearing the bone split as it met the metal. The man struck
a second time, and the leg broke, so that the ball joint went cartwheeling away into the darkness. Using the same motion,
the man struck upwards, attempting to use the jagged end of the shaft like a knife and catching Bartholomew a bruising blow
under the ribs. The physician backed away but tripped over Michael, who was still crawling about on all fours.

Meanwhile, the flames had taken hold of Glovere’s blanket and were burning furiously. They crackled and hissed as they consumed
the filthy wool, sending sparks snapping across the wooden floor. Some sawdust caught light and started to burn. The Bone
House began to fill with white, choking smoke.

The man grabbed a skull and lobbed it towards them. It hit Michael on the shoulder with a hollow crack, then bounced away
across the floor. The next one was aimed at the physician’s head, and he raised one hand to deflect it, dropping the forceps
as he did so. He lunged forward again, aiming to grab the man and then hold him until Michael could help, but the man side-stepped
quickly, and Bartholomew found himself with a grip that was inadequate. The force of his lunge caused him to lose his balance,
and he fell.

With a dull roar, the fire took hold of something unidentifiable in a corner. As he tumbled, Bartholomew saw that flames were
licking towards the pile of old coffins, too, and knew that the ancient wood would make excellent kindling.

He should not have allowed his attention to stray from his assailant. He felt a sudden pressure on his head. He struggled,
but the man leaned his whole weight downward, and the physician found he was unable to move. And then he felt the prick of
cold metal at the base of his skull.

Just when Bartholomew was certain it was all over, and that he would end his life on a filthy floor in a bone house with Michael
soon to follow, the pressure was released. He heard a grunt and another crash, and flinched away as flames came
too near his face. He saw Michael hovering above him. The man had gone, and the door was swinging open on its hinges.

‘My God, Matt …’ began the monk unsteadily.

‘Where did he go?’ demanded Bartholomew, scrambling to his feet.

‘He ran through the door. I saw him with that knife at your neck, and I thought—’

‘Which way?’ Bartholomew made for the entrance. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No, I—’

‘You mean he escaped?’ shouted Bartholomew aghast, looking this way and that across the dark priory grounds. There was no
movement anywhere, in any direction. Their quarry had bested them both and had slipped away into the night. ‘But we had him
in our clutches!’

‘The fire!’ shouted Michael. ‘Quick! Help me before it takes hold.’

He flapped ineffectually at the flames that licked at the old coffins, making them burn more vigorously than ever. Bartholomew
leaned hard against the barrel of bone fragments until it toppled, sending its damp, mouldering contents skittering across
the floor. He threw handfuls of them at the sparks until they had been smothered. Shaking and breathless, he walked outside,
where he took several breaths of clean night air. He wiped a hand across his face and looked at Michael, then swore softly,
startling the monk with a sudden string of obscenities.

‘It was not my fault,’ began Michael defensively. ‘When he fell on me, he knocked me all but witless for a few moments. When
I came to my senses, I saw him kneeling on top of you with that nasty little blade gleaming in the firelight, and I thought
I was already too late. I hit him with the spade as hard as I could, then came to see if you were still alive.’

‘You let him go,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘You should have given chase.’

‘I shall, next time,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You must excuse me, Matt: I was sentimental enough to place concern for a friend
over catching a criminal.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, relenting when he saw the monk’s face was white, and that there was an unhealthy sheen of
sweat on it. His nose was bleeding, too.

‘
I
am sorry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I am sorry I listened to you in the first place. I
told
you we should have fetched Cynric and Meadowman, and that we would not be able to manage this man by ourselves. I was right
and you were wrong.’

‘We were careless. We should not have allowed him to defeat us.’

‘We should not,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘But next time, we will do what
I
think is right. And I will concentrate all my efforts on catching him and
you
can fend for yourself.’

‘Your nose is bleeding,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his medicine bag and handing the monk a clean piece of linen. ‘Sit
down and tilt your head back.’