A Summer of Discontent (52 page)

‘Here,’ said Ralph, pulling ineffectually at a heavy slab of oak. ‘She is under this.’

Bartholomew saw that one of the ugliest gargoyles he had ever seen had fallen virtually whole on top of the hapless Tysilia.
It looked as though the artist had intended it to be a pig, but had lost interest halfway through. He turned his attention
to Tysilia’s body. Most of her was unscathed: it was only her head that had been caught under the carving.

‘It has destroyed her clever mind,’ Bartholomew heard the clerk mutter facetiously to Ralph. ‘What a pity she will be giving
no more of her erudite opinions on the mysteries of the universe.’

‘Crushed by a pig,’ said Ralph, who was fighting to adopt
a suitably sombre expression. ‘What a way to go!’

Bartholomew crouched to examine her, although he knew she could not have survived under the tremendous weight of the gargoyle.
De Lisle, however, pushed him away, kneeling next to her with tears running down his face.

‘Tysilia!’ he wept. ‘How could the saints have allowed this to happen?’

‘Perhaps one of them arranged it,’ murmured Ralph to the clerk. ‘St Etheldreda probably does not like being asked to deliver
monks into the amorous clutches of women like that.’

‘Let me examine her,’ said Bartholomew, trying to ease his way past de Lisle. ‘I may be able to do something.’

‘You cannot,’ said de Lisle, stricken. ‘It is clear she is beyond any earthly help, and I do not want her poked at.’

‘But we should be sure—’ began Bartholomew.

‘No,’ whispered de Lisle, taking one of the lifeless hands in his and pressing it to his cheek. Bartholomew began to feel
sorry for him. ‘Someone will pay for this.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘It was an accident. She should not have wandered where she knew she was
not supposed to be.’

‘Someone caused this to fall deliberately,’ fumed de Lisle, grief giving way to anger. ‘The roof was unstable, but it was
not that bad. Someone pushed something.’

Bartholomew was sure he was wrong, but there was a gallery running around the top of the transept, and so he supposed it was
possible that someone had climbed up to it to launch a murderous attack on Tysilia, although he could not imagine who or why.

‘Blanche,’ snarled de Lisle, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Blanche is responsible for this, to pay me back for Glovere.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Murder is a grave sin at any time, but it would be even more so in a cathedral.’

‘Blanche and her retinue are witches and warlocks,’ ranted de Lisle. ‘I will have them burned for heresy.’

Bartholomew stepped back as the Bishop came to his
feet fast, launching into a diatribe of hatred against the enemy he imagined to have killed the one person for whom he felt
affection. As he moved away from the distraught Bishop, something yellow caught Bartholomew’s eye. It was a coin. He picked
it up, then spotted another. Ralph saw what he was doing, and within a few moments they had amassed a veritable treasure trove,
including a number of coins and a selection of jewellery. De Lisle watched with a lack of interest, more concerned with the
inert form of Tysilia.

‘I know what these are,’ said Ralph, gazing down at their hoard. ‘They are items stolen during those burglaries in the town
– there is the Bishop’s ring and here is his silver plate. The thief has been storing them here, in the cathedral.’

‘How ingenious,’ said the clerk. ‘Stolen property would be perfectly safe in this part of the building, because everyone is
afraid that the whole thing will come down at the slightest touch.’

‘I keep telling you that it is
not
that unstable,’ said de Lisle testily. ‘Alan is an excellent engineer, and he said the place would last for years yet. It
is a little wobbly, but it is not about to tumble around our ears at any moment.’

‘Tysilia would disagree,’ muttered the clerk, staring at the dusty white legs that poked from under the gargoyle.

‘But I have noticed fresh falls myself,’ argued Bartholomew, not sure that he believed de Lisle. ‘That angel, for example.’

But even as he pointed at the carving, he could see fresh marks on it, where it had apparently been chiselled away from its
holding. He stared at it in confusion. De Lisle watched him.

‘It seems to me that someone wanted people to believe the transept was dangerous so that they would stay out,’ de Lisle surmised.
‘And everyone was to stay out because here are the proceeds from those thefts.’

‘Leycestre,’ murmured Bartholomew to himself. ‘So that is what he and John were discussing so furtively. No wonder
John knew about the burglaries – it may even have been his idea to use the cathedral as a storeroom.’

‘What?’ demanded de Lisle. ‘What are you muttering about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of his promise to John. He supposed he would be justified in breaking it, given that
John had kept a substantial part of the truth from him, but he did not want to see the priest suffer the kind of fate that
might well be in store for Leycestre.

‘Gather this treasure together,’ de Lisle instructed his clerk and steward. He sighed impatiently when he saw them glance
nervously at the ceiling. ‘I have told you it is safe. Someone deliberately caused the fall you just saw, and it will not
happen again.’

‘It might,’ said Ralph fearfully. ‘Someone will not want us taking all this treasure.’

‘No one is up there,’ said de Lisle in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘When you have collected it you can take it to my
house, where we will arrange for the victims of these thefts to reclaim what is rightfully theirs.’

‘What, all of it?’ asked Ralph in horror.

De Lisle thought for a moment. ‘Well, we will remove a little something as our reward for finding it. I shall need funds now
that I have to pay for a requiem mass.’ He looked back at the crumpled form beneath the statue. ‘My fallen angel!’

‘I think that is a pig, actually,’ said Ralph, turning his head to inspect the gargoyle.

‘I meant Tysilia,’ said de Lisle in a strangled voice. ‘My poor Tysilia!’

‘Yes?’ came a muffled voice from the ground.

Ralph and the clerk backed away in alarm, while de Lisle and Bartholomew gazed at Tysilia’s body in astonishment. De Lisle
crossed himself quickly.

‘It is a miracle!’ the Bishop whispered, awed. ‘St Etheldreda has brought her back to us. I just hope she still has a head
to claim as her own – life could be difficult
without one, and the saints often forget this sort of detail when they perform their miracles.’

‘She has managed without a brain so far,’ muttered Bartholomew, kneeling to examine her. ‘And she was not dead in the first
place: this statue has fallen in such a way that I think she is unscathed.’

‘But you told me she was dead!’ shouted de Lisle accusingly. ‘You are a physician, so I believed you.’

‘I did no such thing,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘You would not let me near her.’

He felt under the stone, then took Tysilia’s feet and hauled her in an undignified manner from beneath the pig. When he released
her, she sat up, her hair a dusty mess around her face and her clothes in ruins. She took a deep breath and shook her head,
as though to clear it. Ralph and the clerk took a hasty step backward, as though they imagined she might shake it from her
shoulders and they did not want to be nearby when it happened.

‘That was not nice,’ she declared. ‘It was quite dark for a few moments, as though I was in my bed asleep. But of course I
was not, was I?’

‘Tysilia!’ exclaimed de Lisle in delight, leaning forward to give her a heartfelt embrace.

‘I am hungry,’ she said, fending him off. ‘And I do not like this church. What do you say to a visit to a tavern? There are
lots of very nice young men in taverns.’

‘Whatever you say,’ said de Lisle fondly, helping her to her feet and taking her hand to lead her away from the rubble.

‘I thought we were rid of her for a moment,’ said Ralph, sounding deeply disappointed. ‘But St Etheldreda stepped in and saved
her, just as the Bishop said. It just goes to show that even saints can make mistakes sometimes.’

‘A
ND SHE JUST SAT UP AND SHOOK HERSELF?’ ASKED
Michael, half amazed and half amused by Tysilia’s reaction to her brush with death when Bartholomew gave him details of the
miraculous escape as they sat in the refectory at sunset. An early evening meal had already been served, but Michael had managed
to inveigle himself something extra from the kitchens. ‘She did not complain of a headache or start to weep from fright?’

‘She said she was hungry, and was bored by de Lisle’s exclamations of delight and relief.’

‘And the gargoyle had fallen in such a way as to leave her completely unharmed?’

‘More or less. De Lisle thinks St Etheldreda intervened. But what shall we do about Leycestre? Shall we lie in wait and catch
him red-handed as he relieves Alan of the monastic silver tonight?’

‘Given our performance in the Bone House, I am not sure that is wise,’ said Michael. ‘And Leycestre’s crimes are irrelevant
to us anyway. It is the killer I want to catch, not a man with a penchant for other people’s property.’

‘But it is still possible they are one and the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘John said Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde all expressed
no interest in Leycestre’s rebellion, and it occurred to him that Leycestre had murdered them.’

‘But he has no evidence,’ Michael pointed out. ‘John is a frightened man who realises that he cannot follow his conscience
and the law at the same time. He is afraid of everyone. And how do you know he has not already told Leycestre that you have
guessed what he intends to do tonight?’

‘I think John will be halfway to Lincoln by now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was so terrified by his discussion with me that he
will snatch the advantage he has been given and run away.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He will have warned Leycestre, and there will be no theft from Prior Alan or anyone else.’
He gave a sudden chuckle and changed the subject. ‘De Lisle is a popular man at the moment. He took all that treasure to his
house and displayed it for the merchants to identify and collect. It had all been returned to its owners in less than an hour.’

‘Was everyone’s property there?’

‘Almost. Agnes Fitzpayne had listed various items that were not recovered.’

‘I told you,’ said Bartholomew triumphantly. ‘There was nothing for her to claim, because nothing was stolen from her. And
the fact that she was the only “victim” whose property did not reappear affirms it.’

‘She was
not
the only one, though,’ said Michael. ‘A certain number of coins also remain missing, although all the jewellery was accounted
for.’

‘You should know where
they
went,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that de Lisle would be very pleased with his unexpected windfall. No one would accuse him
of keeping a small profit for himself when he had been to such pains to return the bulk of it to its rightful owners.

‘I have had enough of the rebels and their petty crimes,’ said Michael, obviously not wanting to hear that de Lisle was less
than honest. ‘But while you were busy pulling Tysilia from under pigs by her legs, I was also busy. I happen to know that
Symon the librarian is currently lurking in his favourite hiding place – the latrines. He thinks he will avoid an awkward
interrogation from me regarding the state of his back.’

‘Then we should talk to him immediately,’ said Bartholomew, taking the monk’s sleeve and tugging it to make him finish his
meal and leave. ‘He is an elusive fellow,
and if you have him pinned down, we should take the opportunity to speak to him before he disappears again.’

‘He is an unpleasant piece of work,’ said Michael, shaking Bartholomew off and returning to his food. ‘I was thinking that
if we left it long enough, the killer might come and relieve us of the bother of talking to the man.’

‘I thought we were going to talk to him
because
he has a bad back, and we think
he
might be the one you hit with a spade.’

Michael shook his head. ‘The killer is a clever man, and the only thing Symon is clever at doing is eluding people who want
to see him. He blusters and brags, but when you press him it is obvious that he is nothing but hot air, and his knowledge
is superficial and often erroneous.’

‘But we should talk to him anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should at least learn how he came by his ailment. And do not forget
he is one of our main suspects for the death of Thomas.’

Seeing that Bartholomew would not let matters rest until they had interrogated the elusive librarian, Michael sighed and stood,
wiping the crumbs from his mouth as he followed the physician out of the refectory and into the soft gloom of a late summer
evening. They walked to the latrines, looking at the monks who were still out for signs of limps or twinges. They passed Henry
who emerged from his infirmary. He stretched both arms above his head, then clutched his back to give it a vigorous massage.

‘How are you?’ he asked of Bartholomew. ‘What did you think of my tonic?’

‘It worked well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I think it would be dangerous if taken too often.’

Henry nodded. ‘I keep it only for emergencies. You will not take another dose, then? To see you through this unpleasant investigation?’

‘He will not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘I do not want him exhausting me with excessive energy.’

As they talked, Prior Alan strolled towards them with a
distinctly uneven gait, and informed Bartholomew and Henry that his hip always ached when he spent too much time climbing
on scaffolding – which he said he had been doing that day to oversee the work on Holy Cross Church. Henry offered him a poultice,
and they disappeared inside the hospital together.

‘I wonder if his climbs on scaffolding extend to pushing gargoyles on bishops’ nieces,’ muttered Bartholomew as they went
on their way.

‘No one tried to kill Tysilia, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle was distraught, and was making unfounded accusations in his
grief.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Of course, it would have been difficult for Blanche to extricate herself from
that
indictment, given that she publicly threatened to kill Tysilia – the day we found Robert, remember? – and that she had a
grudge against de Lisle because of Glovere.’

‘Do you think de Lisle arranged to have the stone pushed himself, so he would be able to accuse Blanche of dirty tricks?’

Michael seriously considered the possibility. ‘If so, then the pusher would have had to be a man he trusted, because he would
not have wanted the pig to land on him by mistake. But Ralph was with you, and so I do not think that a likely scenario, Matt.’

‘Is Ralph the only man he would depend on for such a thing?’

‘Yes, I think so. But, unlikely though it sounds, de Lisle loves Tysilia and I do not believe he would risk harming her.’

‘De Lisle is certain it was not an accident. It seems that the north-west transept was actually reasonably safe, but rumours
were circulated that it was not. I asked Henry about it, and he thinks the rumours originated with John and Leycestre. Leycestre
is obviously good at spreading tales that benefit him.’

‘But it was not safe,’ Michael pointed out. ‘There were bits of broken stone all over the floor, and a pig dropped on Tysilia’s
head.’

‘Then they were pushed deliberately, to maintain the illusion of instability. It was not so much the building that fell anyway
– it was the scaffolding that was supposed to be shoring it up.’

‘But why did Alan, who is an excellent engineer, say nothing to contradict these rumours?’

‘Because he hopes some wealthy pilgrim will be so appalled by the state of the cathedral that he will donate funds for its
restoration. He said as much when we first arrived. Alan seems as dishonest as Robert where money for his engineering is concerned.’

‘He is obsessed with it,’ agreed Michael. ‘But here we are, at the latrines. This is a pleasant way to pass an evening. Why
did I allow you to drag me from a perfectly good meal for this?’

‘To catch your killer, Brother. And speaking of killers, if you look towards the Prior’s House, you will see Agnes Fitzpayne
meeting Alan. I wager you anything you choose that her presence here is the first stage in the plan to rob the priory. The
theft is under way.’

‘Is it my imagination, or is she limping?’ asked Michael, peering through the gloom of dusk to where Bartholomew pointed.

‘She is limping,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But she is wearing her best clothes for her assignation with Prior Alan, and it is possible
that her shoes pinch. There is Welles. He is limping, too.’

‘So he is,’ said Michael. ‘But he was not doing so earlier. The more I look around me, the more I realise that many folk walk
in a way that is extremely odd. I have never noticed it before, but people really do have distinctive gaits.’

Bartholomew saw that Michael was right, and was aware of a slight throb in his own back, probably as a result of pulling William
from the water the previous day.

‘What will you do about that gold thread we found in William’s cross?’ asked Bartholomew, squinting up to where the first
stars were beginning to gleam in a sky that was just
turning from light to dark blue. ‘Will you question Guido about it?’

‘Yes, of course. But whoever killed William battered him over the head – no blades were inserted in his neck. This makes me
suspect – rightly or wrongly – that William’s killer is different to the others’. So, Guido can wait until tomorrow. Today,
I want to catch the neck-stabber.’

‘Guido may not be here tomorrow,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will have taken the money offered by Leycestre and left.’

‘Then I will follow him. The clan owns a number of carts – his tracks will not be hard to find.’

‘I am not so sure about that. Leycestre is unlikely to pay someone to disappear who will be easily found. Once Guido leaves
Ely, you may never see him again.’

‘That may be true elsewhere, but not here,’ said Michael confidently. ‘There are a limited number of paths through the Fens,
and people with heavy carts can hardly load them all on to boats. They will not go far.’

Bartholomew thought he was wrong, but saw there was little point in arguing. He began to walk along the line of latrines,
opening each door to see whether anyone was hiding inside. One or two people were there on perfectly legitimate business,
but their outraged objections died in their throats when Michael leaned into the stalls to enquire whether they wished to
make a complaint. The expression on his face made it clear that the best thing they could do would be to close the door and
ignore whatever happened outside.

When they had reached the last stall, and there was no sign of Symon, Bartholomew began to think that the slippery librarian
had eluded them yet again. But when he shoved the door open as far as it would go, it met with resistance, and when he pushed
against it harder still, there was a small grunt of pain.

‘Come out, Symon,’ ordered Michael. ‘I do not like latrines at the best of times, and I am not impressed that
my search for you has led me here yet again. I am not in a good mood, and you would be wise to pander to my wishes.’

Reluctantly, Symon sidled from the stall, looking this way and that as though he imagined he might be able to run if the questions
became too awkward. Michael grabbed him firmly by the arm and dragged him away. When he reached a place where the air suited
him better, Michael stopped, but did not release his prey.

‘You have a bad back,’ he began without preamble. ‘Would you care to tell us how you came by it?’

‘No,’ said Symon shortly.

‘Then I suggest you reconsider, unless you want to spend all your time in the latrines for the next year. I am an influential
man, and if I make a recommendation to Prior Alan that these buildings are filthy and need to be cleaned daily, he will comply
with my suggestion regarding who is the best-suited man for the task.’

Symon blanched. Even his affinity with the latrines did not stretch that far, and he evidently knew Michael was the kind of
man to carry out his threat. He began to bluster. ‘I do not know how I came by my ailment. It just happened.’

‘You did not engage in a fight of any kind or attack someone?’ prompted Michael.

Symon regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Are you mad? Of course I did not fight anyone! That kind of behaviour is for
novices and men who are paid by the Bishop to chase criminals.
I
am a
librarian
!’ He drew himself up to his full height and regarded Michael with disdain.

‘Then how do you account for your bad back?’ pressed Michael, unmoved. ‘These things do not “just happen”. You have to do
something to aggravate them. Is that not true, Matt?’

‘When you hide in the latrines, do you sit?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding not to answer. Backaches were difficult complaints
to diagnose, and came about as a result of a wide variety of causes. He had treated many patients who
claimed that a sudden pain in the back had started for no apparent reason.

‘That is a highly personal question,’ said Symon, clinging to the last vestiges of his dignity. ‘But yes, I do. Sitting allows
me to rest my legs, whereas standing means I tend to lean against the walls.’ He shuddered. ‘And no one should do that in
there.’

‘Then your backache may be explained by your sitting too long in one position,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not much space
for moving in those stalls. I recommend you either stand more often or find another hiding place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Symon stiffly. ‘I shall do that.’

‘What have you been doing for the last two days?’ demanded Michael scowling at Bartholomew for allowing the librarian to wriggle
from the hook. ‘Did you not hear that we wanted a word with you?’

Symon’s expression hardened. ‘I have duties to fulfil, and cannot abandon them just because you have decided to ask me questions.
For your information, I went to visit the nuns at Denny Abbey yesterday, because they are selling a copy of Matthew Paris’s
Chronica Majora
.’