A Summer of Discontent (49 page)

‘Guido is not the kind of man to engage in that sort of thing. Why should he? He is not tied to a landlord: this is not his
fight, and I cannot see why he should become involved.’

‘Then what
were
they discussing?’ asked Bartholomew irritably. His head was aching, and he felt sick, as though he had had too much to drink
the night before. He wondered whether it was the after-effects of Henry’s tonic and assumed that there would have to be a
down-side to such a marvellous potion.

‘I do not know,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as the first of the food arrived. ‘But it looked more like an argument than
a discussion to me.’

‘Perhaps they were debating who to murder next,’ said Bartholomew, eating a piece of chicken without enthusiasm. He was more
interested in the ale, although Michael claimed it was too weak.

‘Did Leycestre look as though he was limping to you?’ asked Michael. ‘Go to the window and watch him. You are a physician,
and are good at observing such things.’

Bartholomew obliged, watching the burly farmer walk towards the river. There was a distinct unevenness to his gait. He returned
to Michael and reported his observations. ‘I suppose he could always walk like that,’ he concluded. ‘It was not a limp so
much as a stiffness. Perhaps working in the fields does not agree with him.’

‘Or perhaps he is suffering from a spade blow to the back.’

‘Our list of suspects for last night’s débâcle includes everyone in the priory and everyone in the town. We cannot go on like
this, Brother: we have to narrow it down.’

‘But not by excluding Leycestre,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He was not on innocent business here in Chettisham.’

The landlord continued to bring dishes of meat, bread and pastries until Michael declared himself replete. Then he sat back
with a sigh of pleasure, and made himself comfortable on the bench, leaning his back against the wall, and using his hat as
a headrest as he prepared to take a nap.

‘Guido and Leycestre,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Men who dislike each other. They had a public fight in the Heyrow when Leycestre
ordered Guido expelled from the Lamb, and Leycestre has been accusing the gypsies of all manner of crimes ever since we arrived.’

‘Could they have committed the murders together?’ asked Michael, sounding as if he did not care what Bartholomew thought,
as long as it did not interfere with the doze he planned to take.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their dislike of each other is too public. You would need to trust someone absolutely if you were
going to use him as an accomplice to murder.’

‘Perhaps their antipathy is a ruse,’ suggested Michael with a shrug. His eyes were closed and his voice was slurred, as if
his mind was already elsewhere. ‘Perhaps Leycestre blames the gypsies so that people will not suspect that they
are
partners in crime.’

Bartholomew thought about that for a while, turning over the possibilities in his mind. He remembered the glittering malice
he had seen on the faces of both when they had fought in the Heyrow, and the fact that weapons had been produced. He had no
doubt that the crowd Leycestre had whipped into a frenzy might have done serious harm to the gypsies had Bartholomew not intervened,
and there was only so far Guido would go for the sake of appearances. Being bludgeoned to death was definitely past the limit.
And Leycestre’s accusations were probably making it difficult for Guido and his clan to do his business in Ely, whether it
was buying bread or securing work. It made no sense for Guido to agree to such conditions.

‘You are wrong,’ he concluded. ‘They are not accomplices. Perhaps they met by chance after all.’

‘Mmm?’ murmured Michael, shifting slightly in his sleep.

Bartholomew thought about the other crimes that had been committed in the town. Although he and Michael had not been charged
to investigate them, there had been burglaries almost every night since Guido and his clan had arrived in Ely. But, as Guido
had claimed, the gypsies were unlikely to be the culprits, because it would have been obvious who was responsible. Justice
in England tended to be summary and swift, and many sheriffs would regard the presence of travellers in a city plagued by
a sudden spate of crimes evidence enough.

Were the murders and the burglaries related? Bartholomew tried to recall what he had been told about the thefts. They all
occurred in the homes of the wealthy – merchants, Bishop de Lisle and finally Barbour the landlord. Bartholomew rubbed his
chin as a thought occurred to him. No poor person had been targeted, and Leycestre was constantly pointing out
that the rich lived well, while the peasantry seldom knew where their next meal was coming from. Was Leycestre the burglar,
stealing from the rich people he so despised?

But how could that be right? One of the most recent victims had been Agnes Fitzpayne, who was a good friend of Leycestre’s.
The man would surely not steal from someone who seemed to hold the same views as he did. Or would he? Bartholomew frowned.
Perhaps Agnes had agreed to claim she had been burgled for the express purpose of making Leycestre appear innocent. And Leycestre
had certainly been present when Barbour had bragged about where he had hidden his money.

But Leycestre was not suddenly sporting new clothes or producing gold to buy back the land he had lost. Where were all his
gains going? Bartholomew sat up straight when it occurred to him that rebellions cost money. There were weapons to be bought,
and favours to be purchased from people in a position to dispense them. Messengers needed to be hired, with fast horses, to
spread the word once it had started, and funds would be necessary to allow the leaders to meet in secret places and discuss
tactics. Was that the reason for the burglaries? That Leycestre needed money to support his rebellion, and he had decided
the rich should pay?

If that were true, then the gypsies’ arrival had been a perfect opportunity to place the blame on someone else – people who
would never join the revolution, because they were not tied to the land and were free to do as they pleased. They were excellent
scapegoats; they had a reputation for stealing the odd coin or hen, and they were dispensable. Because they came every year,
Leycestre had waited for their arrival before he put his plan into action.

The more Bartholomew thought about his solution, the more it made sense. Triumphant that he had made some headway, even though
it probably had nothing to do with the murders, he prodded Michael awake.

‘What?’ demanded the monk crossly. ‘I was sleeping.’

‘I know what Leycestre has been doing,’ declared Bartholomew, reaching for his jug of ale and taking a deep draught. ‘His
rebellion is more than wishful thinking. He is preparing to make it into a reality with funds stolen from the merchants.’

Michael listened to the explanation with wide eyes, saying nothing until he had finished. ‘And you woke me to tell me this?’
he demanded. ‘I have never heard such nonsense! Where is your evidence? You do not have a scrap of it.’

‘I do not,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it makes sense.’

‘It does not,’ snapped Michael, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘I thought you had a headache. You would have done better to take
a nap, rather than make it worse with all this false reasoning.’

‘I feel better,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘The after-effects of Henry’s tonic are not so serious after all.
No wonder he keeps it locked away. If the general populace learns there is a substance that can make you happy and give you
energy to work, and that the only negative is a slight headache and a little queasiness, then we would have no peace from
demands for it, as Henry has discovered from Northburgh and Stretton.’

‘Leycestre is not a burglar,’ said Michael, eating a crust of bread he had missed earlier. ‘He is too old for that sort of
thing.’

‘It was you who pointed out that he was walking stiffly this morning. It is probably because he had to climb the outside of
the Lamb to reach Barbour’s attic, and he is not used to it.’

‘Well, even if you are right, this speculation does not help us. The burglaries and the murders have nothing to do with each
other.’

But Bartholomew was certain he had solved at least one of the mysteries that besieged the little Fenland city. He finished
his ale and followed Michael outside the inn to the bright sunshine.

* * *

The walk back to Ely was brutally hot. The sun was as fierce as Bartholomew had ever known it, and he was reminded of his
travels in southern Italy and France, where the sun burned all the greenness out of the landscape. The river looked cool and
inviting – if he did not think about what might be floating in it – and they had walked only a short distance before he removed
his shirt and waded into the shallows to dive into the cool blackness of the deeper water.

Michael watched enviously from the bank, while Bartholomew urged him to jump in, expounding the virtues of a cool dip on a
hot day. Michael demurred, and sat miserably in his heavy habit and wide black hat. His face was red, and he complained that
the heat was making his skin itch. Eventually, the temptation became too great, and the monk removed his habit to reveal voluminous
underclothes and monstrous white limbs. It was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was glad they were not inflicting it
on any passers-by.

Michael wallowed around like a vast sea creature, scowling and looking as if he were not enjoying the experience at all. He
grumbled about the mud under his feet, and did not like the smell of the peaty water. After a while, when he had cooled down,
he claimed he had had enough and was going home. He headed for a patch of sedge.

‘You will never get out that way,’ Bartholomew warned. ‘It will be too boggy.’

Michael ignored him, then gave a sudden howl of alarm, splashing furiously in an attempt to push away from whatever had startled
him. Water slapped into his mouth, and he began to choke, which increased his agitation. Afraid that the monk might have hurt
himself on a sharp stone or a stick, Bartholomew went to his assistance. But it was not sticks and stones that had unnerved
the monk.

Among the reeds, bobbing obscenely in the waves that Michael created, was a dead white hand. Bartholomew parted the stems
to look at its owner, before turning to face Michael, who was treading water and gasping like a drowning man.

‘It is William,’ Bartholomew said softly, gesturing to the distinctive bob of grey hair, now sadly soiled and bedraggled.
‘His body must have been caught in the vegetation, rather than washing downstream like the others’.’

Michael began to gag. His face was bright red, and he snatched at Bartholomew in panic when the physician went to his aid.
It was not easy to haul him to the safety of the shore, and both were panting and exhausted by the time they had scrambled
up the bank.

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Michael, rubbing himself down with his habit. Water gushed from his massive underclothes, and ran down
the flabby white flesh of his legs. ‘I shall never swim in a river again. It is vile to share it with corpses – especially
bloated and stinking ones like that.’

‘William has not been dead that long,’ said Bartholomew, pushing his way through the undergrowth that fringed the water to
reach the body from the shore. He found it, and hauled it backward until it lay on the grass like a landed fish.

‘How long?’ demanded Michael, rubbing his habit across his hair, so that the thin locks stood in needle-sharp spikes across
his head.

‘I do not know. No more than three days – he went missing on Wednesday night, if you recall, and it is now Saturday.’

‘And how did he die?’ asked Michael. ‘Is there a cut in his neck?’

‘No.’ Bartholomew knelt to examine the hosteller. ‘But there is a serious dent in his head.’

‘What are you saying? Was William murdered by the man who killed the others, or not?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, turning the body as he assessed it in more detail. ‘The method was not the same, but that
does not tell us anything conclusive. From the damage to his hands, it seems that he struggled with his attacker. We saw the
same thing on Robert, remember?’

Michael nodded. ‘Robert knew there was a killer on the loose and fought with whoever grabbed him. Perhaps William was so afraid
that he decided to leave the priory
before he went the same way – he ran away, but the murderer found him anyway.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where are his possessions?’

‘The killer stole them, I imagine,’ said Michael, as though it were obvious. ‘If you have murdered someone, you may as well
recompense yourself for your pains and make off with a couple of saddlebags of good robes and gold coins.’

‘So, now we are looking for someone with a bruised back, who is wearing finest quality Benedictine robes and has a lot of
money to spare,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should not be too difficult to track down.’

Michael ignored him, and nodded instead to the dead man’s hands. ‘His nails are broken, and there are cuts on his arms. I
assume the killer will also have scratches on him.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are injuries caused while William tried to defend himself; there is nothing to indicate
that he managed to inflict any harm on his assailant. The cuts show where he fended off a knife or another blade of some kind,
and the broken fingernails could have been caused by his clawing at anything in his desperation to escape, even the ground.’

‘But then his nails would be full of mud. And they are not.’

‘He has also been in the river for an undetermined amount of time, and it may have been washed away.’

‘His death was definitely a result of this blow to his head? There are no other fatal injuries? He did not drown?’

‘I cannot really tell,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If I lean hard against his chest, some bubbles seep from his mouth, suggesting
he breathed water into his lungs, but it is irrelevant anyway. What is important is that we know he fought against his attacker,
and that at some point he was hit on the head – or perhaps he fell. He probably drowned while he was unconscious – his death
was a result of the tussle, regardless.’