A Summer of Discontent (59 page)

‘You think Henry poisoned Symon with mercurial salts before kneeling on his head and cutting his neck?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘He would not have used mercurial salts; they take some time to work, and death is painful and often noisy. I think he used
a strong dose of hemp, which would have made Symon drowsy and relaxed. Then it would have been easy to take him by surprise,
and cut his neck before he could do anything to prevent it. Bear in mind that the keys to the prison are in a place where
any monk can take them – including Henry.’

‘That proves nothing,’ said Michael impatiently.

‘Then consider what we know about Mackerell. Do you remember Symon claiming he had seen Mackerell near the castle the morning
after we were supposed to meet him? He was right.’

‘We discounted Symon’s claim, because he said he was not certain,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Mackerell wanted to be in the Prior’s prison, because he thought he would be safe there. The morning after he failed to meet
us, he must have asked Henry to lock him in, and he has been hiding there ever since.’

‘But that makes no sense at all,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why would Mackerell ask
Henry
to lock in him the cells? And why was he safe only until last night?’

‘Because Henry had just killed Symon. Mackerell probably saw it happen.’

‘I am not convinced by this at all,’ warned Michael. ‘You cannot even prove that they knew each other.’

‘I can. Robert told us that Henry bought fish from Mackerell to make medicines. Henry is liked by everyone and universally
trusted.
I
would have asked for his help, had I been Mackerell.’

‘I am still not convinced,’ said Michael, growing testy. ‘What other “evidence” do you have that will see dear, gentle Henry
accused of these vile crimes?’

‘He owns a key to the back gate – he told us so himself – so could easily have slipped out at night to kill the townsfolk.’

‘Then how do you think he managed to kill Robert?’ asked Michael, his voice triumphant as he spotted another flaw in Bartholomew’s
logic. ‘He was reading in the library when that happened. We saw him – and heard him – go there ourselves. Or, at least, I
did.’

‘Think about the order of events that day: Henry was exhausted, and I suggested he rest. He declined, and instead went to
the library to read about treatments for seizures. He went there with Symon, and we heard them talking together. Then we heard
their footsteps on the wooden floor, and then it was silent.’

‘That was because Henry was sitting at a desk, reading. And Symon was with him, anyway.’

‘Symon was not. He told us himself that he was not in the library for long, because he looked out of the window and saw Robert
slinking off to the vineyard. He said he left fairly promptly to go in search of him, if you recall. Henry probably also saw
Robert, and so knew exactly where his next murder would take place.’

‘And how did he deal with the fact that Symon was also heading in that direction?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Ask him to dally
for a few moments, so that he could complete his grisly business undisturbed?’

Bartholomew sighed crossly, becoming irritated with Michael’s refusal to see the facts. ‘Think about what Symon
told us, Brother. He did not go straight to the vineyard, did he? He went to the kitchens and spent some time chatting with
the brewer and his assistant, probably telling them all that had happened in the refectory that morning. Doubtless he also
mentioned to Henry that he was thirsty, and that he planned to visit the brewer before pursuing Robert.’

‘But I
heard
Henry in the library at the time of Robert’s death,’ insisted Michael. ‘He did
not
leave to go a-murdering in the vineyards.’

‘That is what he wanted us to think. He made sure we heard him, then, as soon as Symon left, he tiptoed out of the library
and went to the vineyard. Robert had no need to be afraid and Henry was able to get close to him. Then Henry must have lunged,
at which point Robert knew he was fighting for his life. But it was too late: Robert’s struggle was futile.’

‘It was a while before Symon came to announce that Robert was dead,’ acknowledged Michael grudgingly. ‘I suppose there was
time for someone to kill Robert and dispose of his body.’

‘And plenty of time for Henry to return to the library, so that he could clatter noisily down the stairs and pretend to be
horrified when Symon came with the news of Robert’s death. Henry is a fit man – caring for his patients sees to that – but
he could not keep up with Alan and me when we ran to the Quay; he lagged behind with you. That was because he was tired from
having made the journey once already.’

‘But if Henry is the killer, it means that he is the man with whom we struggled in the Bone House,’ said Michael, as if he
thought such a fact exonerated the priory’s physician. ‘Why would he tinker with pots of blood and buckets of soil in the
depths of the night?’

Bartholomew sighed as the answer to that became clear, too. ‘Because Alan has put Henry under considerable pressure to find
a remedy for Northburgh’s wrinkled skin. Every physician knows that no known herb or plant will work such
a miracle, and so Henry was experimenting with other ingredients – blood – which is the essence of life; and earth – the
substance from which all life springs.’

‘But why the Bone House, when he has a perfectly good workshop for that kind of thing?’

‘He would not bring pig’s legs and buckets of blood into the infirmary, where their presence might distress his beloved old
men. He would also not risk dabbling with those kinds of ingredients publicly, because all physicians are cautious of encouraging
accusations of witchcraft. So, he chose a place where he thought he would not be disturbed.’

‘It was unfortunate we happened to intrude, then,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Most monks are in bed at midnight, not wandering
the grounds near the Bone House, but I could not sleep and felt the need for a stroll.’

‘By his own admission Henry was up and about that night, too,’ said Bartholomew, as he recalled fragments of conversations
with the infirmarian. ‘He told me he was in the cathedral, praying for Thomas, and that he saw the gypsies there. They were
meeting de Lisle and Ralph, who were to give them the final details regarding this silly business with the house burning.
And then there is the fact that Henry also has a bad back. I have seen him rubbing it at least twice.’

‘Half the town seems to be doing that,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Henry knew we would be looking for someone with an aching back after our encounter in the Bone House. That was why
he
raised the subject when I saw him the next day. By telling me that de Lisle and Symon had complained of similar problems,
he was able to deflect suspicion from himself. And then there is William.’

‘Guido killed William,’ said Michael immediately. ‘You heard him confess, remember? You cannot blame that on poor Henry.’

‘But Guido said two things that should have made me realise Henry’s role in this. First, William said to Guido that he had
told a friend he was going to fetch another
investigator; and second, Guido said William had some kind of stomach cramps.’

‘I do not see how either of those incriminates Henry.’

‘I think William told
Henry
that he was going to fetch another investigator. As we have said on numerous occasions, people like Henry and trust him.
William may well have turned to the gentle infirmarian, to tell him what he intended to do. And then Henry poisoned him, which
accounted for the cramps Guido noticed. Guido may well have knocked William over the head, but William was a dead man anyway.’

‘You are quite wrong, Matt. Henry is the best monk in the priory, and he is also a dear friend. However, I have known you
long enough to be aware that unless we prove Henry’s innocence to your satisfaction, you will take matters into your own hands
and set about investigating on your own. I do not want you to do that – not in my priory. So, we will go together and settle
this matter once and for all.’ He stood and put both hands to his back as he stretched. He realised what he was doing and
gave Bartholomew a rueful smile. ‘Now even I am doing it!’

They made their way up the hill in silence, thinking about what they were about to do. Bartholomew dragged his heels, as though
by walking more slowly he could avoid a confrontation that he knew would be distressing. Michael was less reticent, since
he was certain there was no truth in the allegations anyway. Even so, the prospect of asking his mentor to prove his innocence
was not a pleasant one.

They reached the infirmary and gazed up at its carved windows and creamy yellow stones, bright in the sun. It was silent,
and, for the first time, Bartholomew felt its peace was more sinister than serene. They entered through the Dark Cloister
and walked along the rows of beds in the hall. Julian lay on one, fast asleep, while old Roger sat bolt upright in another,
his hands clasped in prayer. The other old men slumbered, some quietly, others fitfully.

‘You have no proof of anything,’ said Roger. ‘You will not convict him.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew. Roger had guessed exactly why they were there. ‘And what do you know about it?’

‘Enough,’ said Roger. ‘I can see what has been happening, and I have ears.’

‘Not ones that work, though,’ muttered Michael.

Roger turned bright eyes on him. ‘My hearing is not as dull as I would have you believe. It just suits an old man’s pleasure
to feign deafness. And it has served me well; I have been able to help Henry a good deal in his dispensing of justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. His jaw dropped. ‘You mean
you
have been eavesdropping on secret conversations and passing information to Henry? Everyone believes you are deaf, and so
no one minds what they say when you are near?’

Michael sat heavily on a bench, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his face. He had expected Henry to provide alternative
interpretations of the evidence Bartholomew had presented, which would lead them to pursue other suspects. The fact that Roger
admitted to helping Henry was a bitter blow.

Roger smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘The young are always dismissive of the old. But we are wiser than
you, and more clever. You might never have resolved this case, if it were not for Henry’s imprudent use of that poison.’

‘What poison?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The one that killed William, or the one intended for Michael.’

‘The latter. I told Henry that using such a method to dispense with Michael was unwise, when stabbing had worked so well on
the others.’

‘Why would he want to harm me?’ asked Michael, hurt. ‘I have done nothing to him.’

‘But your investigation was leading you ever closer,’
explained Roger patiently. ‘I told him he had to stop you before you learned too much. He was only spreading a little goodness
in the world; I do not see why he should be punished for that.’

‘Murdering people is not spreading good,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Roger rounded on him. ‘Who says? Visit Mistress Haywarde, and tell me that her husband’s death was not a good thing for her
and her family. Speak to the novices, and ask them whether they preferred life with or without Thomas and Robert.’

Bartholomew walked across to Julian, and rested his hand on the young man’s cooling forehead. His face was peaceful, as though
he had experienced in death what he had never known in life, and the wound in his neck had bled little, which suggested a
quick end.

‘I absolved him before Henry killed him,’ said Roger with satisfaction. ‘He repented his sins, and so perhaps will not spend
as long in Purgatory as he might otherwise have done.’

‘But Julian was young,’ protested Bartholomew, covering the assistant’s face with a blanket. He glanced quickly around at
the other patients, but Henry loved them and clearly intended them no harm. ‘He might have changed.’

‘Not him,’ said Roger firmly. ‘We gave him plenty of time to try, but he was irredeemable. Even you said as much. Julian was
too firmly entrenched in his own wickedness to change.’

‘Was that the criterion Henry used to select his victims?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That they were people he did not like?’

‘People who were selfish and rotten,’ corrected Roger. ‘People without whom the world is a better place. Just look around
you. Pilgrims are thronging joyfully to pray to St Etheldreda now that Robert is not here to make them pay; my old friends
in this hall are sleeping with full bellies, because Thomas has not stolen their food; and no one will deny that the library
will fare better without Symon. The
same goes for those townsmen – Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘We should find Henry before he does any more harm,’ said Michael heavily, standing up. It was not a task he anticipated with
relish. ‘Where is he?’

‘I will not tell you,’ said Roger, folding his arms and eyeing them defiantly. ‘If you find him, you will have him hanged
or imprisoned for the rest of his life. He does not deserve that, after bringing so much happiness to the world.’

‘He did not bring much happiness to Guido,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘Cynric told me that Guido was poisoned,’ said Roger. ‘Henry and I guessed it was with the wine that was intended for Michael.
But it does not matter. It will not take the clan long to realise that they are better without him, too. He was a killer himself.’

‘Guido did strike William a fatal blow,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘William was on his way to fetch another investigator,
although I doubt he would have survived the journey. According to Guido’s testimony, it sounds as though the poison was already
working.’

‘Why did William suddenly decide to fetch another investigator?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he discover something that made him realise
that the case was more than I could handle?’

‘William came here to tell Henry that he trusted none of the three official investigators to uncover the truth,’ replied Roger.
‘He wanted someone to know where he was going, you see, should he be missed. I slipped something from Henry’s workshop into
the wine he drank before he left.’