A Summer of Discontent (47 page)

Bartholomew went straight to his bed, then slept like the dead for three hours. He woke feeling sluggish and tired. He ate
breakfast alone in the infirmary, while Henry fussed over his old men, and Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Breakfast
comprised more of the priory’s delicious bread, a plate of smoked eels and a dish of apples. He considered visiting Ely more
often, where he fared far better in the culinary department than at Michaelhouse. It was good to experience a change from
watery oatmeal and cloudy breakfast ale, even if such luxuries did come attached to wrestling with killers in bone houses
in the middle of the night.

When he had finished eating, he went to talk to Henry. The infirmarian seemed listless, and Bartholomew suspected he had spent
much of the night in prayer, asking forgiveness for the neglect that had brought about the sub-prior’s death. He gave Bartholomew
a wan smile, and leaned back in his chair, putting down the pen with which he had been writing.

‘It looks as though you slept badly again,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically.

‘I was in the cathedral until well after midnight, and then exhaustion overtook me. But, when I came to my bed, I found that
every time I closed my eyes, the spectre of Thomas arose before me.’

‘Spectre?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. Somehow, he could not envisage the obese sub-prior in ghostly form. It would be
more amusing than disturbing.

‘Yes,’ said Henry, pointing a finger in accusation. ‘I think his spirit blames me for where it is.’

‘Purgatory?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Hell! A man like Thomas will not be in Purgatory: he was too selfish and greedy. But did you learn
anything from your meeting with that woman? You told me you were going to meet the Bishop’s niece, although
how a good man like that can be related to such a wanton soul is wholly beyond me.’

‘De Lisle is fond of her,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting the kindly infirmarian to know that the relationship was
a good deal closer than everyone was led to believe.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Henry. ‘He is complex: arrogant and condescending one moment, but capable of great acts of kindness and
compassion the next. Did you know that during the Death he was tireless in his care of the sick? He visited the houses of
the poor to grant them absolution before they died without a thought for his own safety. How many bishops did that?’

‘Not many,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And his care of Tysilia shows him in a good light. He has taken her to all sorts of places
in an attempt to find somewhere she might be happy. She even spent a short spell in a leper hospital.’

‘Why there?’ asked Henry, bewildered. ‘That does not sound very safe.’

‘Brother Urban is good with diseases of the mind, and de Lisle wanted him to observe Tysilia, to see whether anything could
be done for her.’

‘Nothing can,’ said Henry confidently. ‘The disease is permanent and incurable. She is a lunatic, and that is all there is
to it. She is probably harmless, but she will never find a place in normal society.’

Bartholomew’s own experiences with Tysilia led him to concur with Henry’s diagnosis. ‘She told us little of use last night.
Everything she said was hearsay, and she knows nothing that can help us. But you say you left the cathedral after midnight.
Did you see anything unusual?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Michael and I met the killer last night. He was doing something horrible with pots of dirt and what appeared to be the parts
of a dead pig. We disturbed him at his work and wrestled with him, but he escaped.’

‘You encountered him?’ breathed Henry in horror. ‘You had this man in your grasp and you let him go?’

‘We did not do it intentionally,’ said Bartholomew, slightly testily. ‘But it happened just after midnight, so did you see
anything?’

Henry shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing that could be relevant. The gypsies were at St Etheldreda’s shrine for a long time.’

‘When, exactly?’ Bartholomew pounced. ‘And why?’

‘They were kneeling at the altar. But they have as much right to be there as anyone else. Just because they are strangers,
with a way of life that is different from ours, does not mean that we should persecute them.’

‘Is that all they were doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Praying?’

‘I said they were kneeling,’ corrected Henry. ‘I might have taken some action if they were making a noise or looking suspicious,
but they were not. They were kneeling very quietly and respectfully. I saw no reason to speak to them or to ask them what
they were doing.’

‘And it was about midnight?’ pressed Bartholomew, wanting to be certain.

‘I think so,’ said Henry. ‘I find it hard to judge time in the dark. I suppose it was an unusual hour for them to be in a
church, but our doors are always open to those who need comfort.’

‘The gypsies have prayed at the shrine before,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about one of the times he had met Eulalia.

‘Perhaps they had been working all evening. At this time of year, there is a lot to be done for the harvest and it is not
unusual for people to labour until midnight.’

‘We will find out,’ said Bartholomew. He sincerely hoped Eulalia and her brothers were not the ones responsible for the strange
happenings in the Bone House. He forced himself to think rationally, trying not to allow his fondness for the woman to colour
his thoughts.

However, all the victims had been killed in an unusual way, and the gypsies could have heard of such a method of
execution during their travels. It also required someone with a degree of strength – which Guido, Goran and Rosel possessed
in abundance. And although he had insisted to Michael that there was only a single killer, Bartholomew saw that it was possible
that one did the grisly work while the others kept watch to ensure the killer was not disturbed. However, he reasoned, there
had only been one of them last night in the Bone House.

He wondered whether the fact that the killer had been inside the priory precincts was evidence that would exonerate the gypsies
and put the blame instead on someone at the monastery – like the missing William, or Blanche and her retinue. But the gatekeeper
had been sleeping, and Bartholomew himself had passed in and out with no questions asked. Someone from the town could easily
have gained access. The Bone House was not a place to which most people willingly ventured, so someone could even have slipped
into it during the day and hidden there until dark.

So, what did all this tell him? He rubbed a hand through his hair in exasperation when he realised that it told him nothing
at all, and that his list of suspects was just as long as ever. The only people who were definitely innocent were the men
who had already died. And there was nothing to say whether Eulalia and her clan were innocent or guilty, although Bartholomew
thought it odd that they should choose midnight to pray to St Etheldreda.

‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.

‘The Bishop was there, too, saying a mass for Thomas,’ said Henry after a moment.

‘At midnight?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that not an odd time for masses?’

Henry shrugged noncommittally. ‘I am sure Thomas is grateful for all the masses he can get – regardless of the time they are
said.’ Bartholomew imagined that was true. ‘But let us talk of medical matters. What do you prescribe for backache?’

‘Backache?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Michael’s blow
with the spade the night before. He gazed at the physician. But Henry could not be the killer! He had been eliminated as
a suspect because he drooled when he slept.

‘I have had two cases already this morning, would you believe,’ Henry continued with a smile. ‘It is not unusual to see such
ailments: those who labour in their fields often have aching bones at the end of the day, while poring over scripts in the
chapter house or the library sometimes gives rise to discomfort.’

‘Who came to see you today?’ demanded Bartholomew eagerly.

Henry was surprised at his interest. ‘One was Bishop de Lisle, although I cannot imagine that
he
was harvesting crops or meditating on sacred scripts. And the other was Symon, who said he had been working in the library
all yesterday.’

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was there in the afternoon, and I was alone.’

‘He is rather given to exaggeration.’

‘That is a polite way of putting it. He is a liar.’

Henry would not be drawn into agreeing outright. ‘He is cautious with the truth. Perhaps he imagines that if he uses it too
often, he will run out.’

‘I think he has run out already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we should have a word with him. Maybe this mess will not be so difficult
to resolve after all.’

‘What has Symon’s backache to do with finding your killer?’

‘Michael struck the murderer hard as he was about to make an end of me. The man will now be nursing a bruised spine.’

At that moment the door opened, and Julian arrived to begin his daily duties. He nodded a greeting to Bartholomew and Henry,
before placing both hands over the small of his back.

‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘Drying herbs is better than being assigned to mucking out the pigs or digging turnips, but leaning over
them makes my back horribly sore!’

J
ULIAN WAS OUTRAGED WHEN BARTHOLOMEW DEMANDED TO
inspect his back in the infirmary, and steadfastly refused to allow him, even when Henry added his voice to the argument.
Bartholomew was on the verge of marching him directly to Michael for interrogation when the young monk relented, hauling up
his habit to reveal silken hose and a fine linen undervest that Bartholomew suspected were well outside the proscribed regulations
for novices. He inspected the young man’s skin, but could see no abrasion, and was not sure whether a slight discoloration
above the belt-line was bruising, or simply where Julian had been less than assiduous with his washing.

The evidence was inconclusive. Bartholomew reasoned that Michael’s blow would not necessarily have caused a visible bruise,
although it might still be painful. He was left not knowing whether Julian’s reluctance to be examined stemmed from the fact
that he did not want to be caught wearing clothes he ought not to have owned, whether he was merely exercising his right not
to be manhandled by any physician who happened to demand to do so, or whether he had not known whether the spade had left
a mark and did not want anyone else to find out either.

‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration, as Julian marched away with a gait that was half-swagger and half-limp.

‘It looks as though you will have to speak to Bishop de Lisle and Symon,’ said Henry, watching Julian go. ‘I do not envy you
that task. De Lisle is not the kind of man who appreciates being a suspect for murder, and neither will Symon be.’

Bartholomew sat on the edge of Henry’s workbench, not
knowing what to do next. Henry was right that de Lisle would not prove an easy man to interview, while the unhelpful Symon
would object to being asked questions on principle. Meanwhile, what was Bartholomew to think about the gypsies being in the
cathedral at an hour when most honest people were in bed? Had they been helping the killer, waiting for him to complete whatever
grisly business he carried out in the Bone House?

‘I am mixing a compound of camomile and borage for Bishop Northburgh’s wrinkles,’ said Henry, pointing to piles of freshly
picked leaves on his table, along with a mound of garlic. ‘Both are known to be good for the skin.’

‘But they will not miraculously provide him with a youthful complexion,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And that is what he wants – not
merely something that might help. He is demanding the impossible.’

‘I suspect you are right, but I shall have to do my best. Alan is determined to have the chapel Northburgh promised, so I
am under some pressure to do all I can. Anyway, there is always cucumber to experiment with, and garlic if I get desperate.’
He sounded despondent.

‘Surgery is the only solution for Northburgh’s loose jowls,’ said Bartholomew flippantly. ‘You will need to take a knife to
all that dangling skin and slice it off, just as Julian suggested.’

Henry regarded him aghast. ‘That is a horrible idea, Matt! It makes you sound like a surgeon! I shall stick to my poultices
and pastes, if you do not mind. At least in that way I will not kill him with my remedies.’

‘Vanity has its price,’ said Bartholomew, watching Henry add the leaves to a flask of water.

‘Welles heard that there were yet more burglaries in the city last night,’ said Henry conversationally, shaking the container
to mix his ingredients. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne first, and then poor Master Barbour of the Lamb Inn again. Obviously, the thieves
decided they had not relieved him of everything the first time around.’

‘He announced that the thieves were unsuccessful,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Barbour’s confidential bellow when they had
found Robert’s body at the Monks’ Hythe two days before. ‘He boasted that he had hidden his night’s takings under the floorboards,
and that the burglars had not found them.’

‘Who heard him?’ asked Henry curiously. ‘Because whoever knew about his hiding place should be a suspect for this theft from
him.’

‘Lots of people. Many of the priory’s monks, including Alan and Symon, de Lisle and his steward, Lady Blanche and her retinue,
Leycestre and his seditious nephews, the gypsies …’

‘The gypsies,’ mused Henry thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that was why they were in the cathedral last night – praying for forgiveness
for the thefts they had just committed, or for the success of the crimes they intended to carry out?’

‘Or possibly neither,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended.

Henry patted his arm with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am sorry; I should not jump to that kind of conclusion. You have been
warning the townsfolk against blaming strangers for all our misfortunes ever since you arrived, and you are right. I apologise.’

Bartholomew smiled, but Henry’s comments had left a lingering doubt in his mind. Eulalia had been distinctly evasive when
he had asked her about the thefts, and when she had given him a direct answer, he had not known whether to believe her. He
took a deep breath and stood up.

‘You look tired,’ said Henry sympathetically, watching him. ‘Take the advice of a physician, and do not overly exert yourself
today.’

‘But you seem better than you were a little earlier,’ observed Bartholomew. ‘You were lethargic and wan when we first started
talking; now you have some colour and exude energy.’

‘I took a tonic of boiled red wine with poppy juice and crushed hemp leaves not long ago. I give it to patients with
nervous complaints, and it always works – now I have taken a dose myself, I can see why. I cannot afford to be listless and
distracted when I have patients to tend. I do not want a second death on my conscience.’

‘Hemp?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘How did you come by that? It is a powerful substance, and I seldom use it, because my patients
always demand more. In large quantities it is dangerous.’

‘I bought some from a merchant who said it came from the Holy Land. But if your patients come clamouring for more, then you
use too much, Matthew. A tiny pinch mixed with wine and poppy juice is the best tonic I know – but, as you say, it is only
to be used infrequently and certainly not in the quantities in which Bishop Northburgh quaffs it. Perhaps you should take
some now. It will allow you to fulfil your duties today without making the mistakes that often stem from over-tiredness.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to develop a liking for hemp.’

‘One dose will not result in a craving for more. You should try it, so that you understand why men like Northburgh praise
its virtues.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew accepted a minuscule amount of Henry’s tonic, his bone-deep exhaustion making him disinclined to
argue. He was surprised to find the infirmarian was right, and that it did indeed serve to dispel the sluggishness that had
been dogging him since he had awoken. There was also a vague sense of well-being, which he supposed was why people tended
to want more of it. He watched Henry seal the container, then replace it on a high shelf that was thick with dust. He hoped
it was sufficiently high to evade the eager hands of the Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield.

‘Northburgh drinks a lot of this, you say?’ he asked.

Henry nodded. ‘I have advised him to reduce the amount, but he will not listen. He has been dosing Stretton with it, too.
He has his own supply, but I do not want him to fix
greedy eyes on my little stash as well. I am obliged to hide it, as you can see.’

‘No wonder their investigations have been so lax,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding a good deal about the behaviour
of the visiting clerics. ‘It explains why they were so mild tempered yesterday, when they spoke to Michael in the refectory.
They are both drugged to stupidity.’

‘Hardly that,’ said Henry, smiling at the exaggeration. ‘But I imagine it accounts for Northburgh’s swings of mood between
bonhomie and aggressive rudeness.’

‘It probably works well for shocks,’ predicted Bartholomew, a little thickly. ‘I usually carry wine for that, although Michael
finished mine last night after our encounter with the killer in the Bone House. He has developed an annoying partiality for
my medicinal claret.’

Henry laughed. ‘He is a large man with large appetites. Let him have his brew, if it makes him happy. But speaking of wine,
I must refill your wineskin. I used what you gave me for Ynys’s medicine, and you were right: good stuff is more soothing
than a raw brew.’ He reached for a large stone jug that stood in the corner.

‘Did someone mention wine?’ came a querulous voice from the infirmary hall. It was Roger.

Henry smiled at Bartholomew, as he poured a measure of deep red claret into the physician’s battered wineskin. ‘It is miraculous
how words like “wine” and “dinner” seem to cure deafness. The others are the same. See how they are looking more lively now
that they think they may be in for a cup of something special? But here is your flask. You must promise that you will not
attempt to tackle this killer singlehanded again: I do not want Michael to drink
all
the priory’s best sack after the shocks of repeated encounters with murderers in the Bone House.’

Bartholomew took the container. The contents smelled strong and fruity, and he felt like taking a sip there and then. But
he decided he had better not drink wine with the hemp he had taken, or he would be no good to Michael or
anyone else. He put it in his bag, fumbling with the buckles and ties, and noting, but not really caring, that it took longer
than usual to complete this minor task.

When he had finished, Henry was standing at his workbench with a chopping knife in his hands and a large pile of garlic in
front of him. ‘I cannot trust Julian to do this,’ he said, looking down at his handiwork. ‘He is incapable of cutting it to
my satisfaction. Garlic should be chopped so fine that the pieces are all but invisible.’

‘I always use a pestle and mortar,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that chopping garlic was for cooks, not physicians. ‘It is
much quicker. But I must go. We have a lot to do today.’

He stumbled as he misread the height of the threshold, and Henry laughed softly. ‘That floating sensation will pass in a few
moments, and then you will feel the beneficial effects of the tonic. Remind me to give you some before you leave for Cambridge.
It is excellent for soothing ragged tempers, and I recall hearing that there are one or two Fellows of Michaelhouse who would
be better company if they were calmer.’

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward. ‘That is certainly true.’

When Bartholomew reported to Michael that there had been a spate of complaints for backache that morning, the monk immediately
decided they should speak to the sufferers, starting with Symon. He gave Bartholomew a rueful smile as they left the refectory
together.

‘I think it would be better to leave the Bishop until we have no other leads to follow. I am sure neither of us wants to travel
along that line of enquiry except as a last resort.’

‘Perhaps not even then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is enough evidence to imply that de Lisle had some kind of hand in Glovere’s
death, and if we find he also has a bruised back, then the case is more or less closed.’

‘But I do not think the man with whom we fought last night was de Lisle,’ said Michael. ‘It did not feel like de
Lisle, and I do not think he was tall enough.’

‘That is wishful thinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I recall thinking that it could have been just about anyone – it was too dark
to see, and I do not think I ever saw him standing straight anyway. He was either climbing the ladder or grubbing about on
the floor with us.’

‘I do not like the way Symon’s name keeps cropping up,’ said Michael thoughtfully, deftly ending a discussion that made him
uncomfortable. ‘He was one of the people in the infirmary when Thomas died, by his own admission he was in the vineyard with
Robert, and now he is claiming a sudden and suspicious back injury.’

‘We do not know how he came by his backache,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a common complaint, and one that is easy to develop
– so it may be wholly irrelevant to this case. But it is certainly time that we had a serious discussion with him – his duties
as librarian seem to afford him considerable freedom, both in terms of time and in allowing him to wander.’

‘You mean he probably had the opportunity to kill Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde, too,’ surmised Michael. ‘We shall bear that
in mind.’

Predictably, Symon was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew and Michael scoured the monastery for him, but the elusive librarian
seemed to have disappeared into thin air, just like William and Mackerell. Michael kicked at the Steeple Gate in frustration.

‘I am growing tired of this!’ he shouted. ‘What is happening here? Is there a secret chamber somewhere, where people wanted
for questioning can hide without fear of being discovered?’

‘If so, then we shall find it. We will search the priory, from top to bottom.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Why do you have so much energy all of a sudden? Do you know something you have not told me? Or did
you sneak away last night with the lovely Eulalia after our encounter with Death?’

‘Neither. Henry gave me a tonic. Once the dizziness wears
off, it really does make you feel as though you have had a good night’s sleep. I can see why people want to keep taking it,
once they have started.’

‘I have heard of medicines like that,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Once the physician or apothecary is certain that his
patient cannot manage without it, he increases the price. Well, you can tell Henry he can keep that sort of potion to himself.
I want no fights in Cambridge because tired students can no longer afford the medicine that allows them to work.’

He stalked across the yard, and addressed a group of young monks who had been watching his display of temper with uneasy curiosity.
One of them was Welles, Henry’s assistant, who tried to back away before Michael reached him. The monk was having none of
that. He put on a surprising spurt of speed, and had the alarmed youngster by the cowl before he could take more than two
steps.