A Summer of Discontent (61 page)

‘Henry was reluctant at first,’ added Ynys. ‘But when he saw the relief afforded to the townsfolk by Glovere’s death, he killed
Chaloner and Haywarde, too – two men who caused more misery to their fellow men than was their right.’

‘So that explains why Ralph was so gloatingly smug when he came to demand cordial,’ said Michael, as understanding dawned.
‘
He
knew that Henry had copied his method of execution. He understood that the culprit
had
to be Henry, because murder is not something one brays around all one’s acquaintances – only to one’s confessor. Henry was
the only other man who knew how Glovere was killed, so Ralph reasoned that Henry killed Chaloner and the others.’

‘Did de Lisle know what Ralph had done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘And Ralph was delighted when de Lisle summoned Michael to investigate. He knew Michael’s reputation as
an investigator, and suspected that he would discover that Henry had killed Chaloner and Haywarde. He imagined that Glovere’s
death would be attributed to Henry, too. That would let him off the hook.’

‘Henry,’ called Michael, addressing the chapel. He tried to move forward, but Roger lunged with his sword and he was obliged
to duck back again. ‘Ralph is dead. He was murdered by the gypsies, because their king drank the poisoned wine
you
gave Matt.’

‘No!’ Henry’s voice was anguished.

‘So what?’ demanded the more practical Roger. ‘Ralph was a killer anyway – he murdered Glovere.’

Henry emerged from the chapel on unsteady legs. His
eyes were wild and his face was bloodless. Tears flooded down his cheeks and his hands shook. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Hemp,’ he said. ‘Take some hemp.’

‘He does not have any more,’ said Roger. ‘He gave the last of it to Northburgh yesterday.’

For the first time, Bartholomew regarded Henry with the eyes of a physician, and was angry with himself for not being more
observant sooner. Henry had been an amiable and placid fellow, seldom roused to anger, even when he had lads like Julian in
his care. But now he was distraught and unstable. Henry had lied when he said his use of hemp was rare: Bartholomew recognised
now that Henry was an habitual user, and that the sudden depletion of his supply was largely responsible for the emotionally
ravaged figure who stood in front of them now. He saw that Henry might well injure himself in his current state. He stepped
towards him, but Ynys was ready with his sword and barred the way.

‘I am doomed!’ cried Henry. ‘I have committed grave sins.’

‘Wait!’ called Michael, as the infirmarian turned and darted out of the hall.

‘Leave him,’ ordered Roger, brandishing his weapon as Michael started to follow.

‘He needs help,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to dodge past Ynys. Ynys, however, had not forgotten his military training, and
came towards the physician with a series of hacking blows. The old man’s face was strangely elated, and Bartholomew imagined
that he saw himself young again, about to fell one of the King’s enemies in Scotland or France.

Just when Bartholomew thought he might be struck, Ynys faltered, grabbing at his hip, and his ecstatic expression changed
to one of agony. He groaned, then slumped to the ground, where he began to whimper feebly. Bartholomew kicked away the sword,
and was about to go to the old man’s assistance when he heard a yell from Michael. Roger had
him pinned against a wall and looked determined to make an end of him. Bartholomew leapt towards them, grabbed Roger’s arm
and spun him around so that the weapon clattered from his ancient hand. Then he hesitated. He was a physician, and had never
struck an elderly patient before. Michael had no such qualms, however. He gave Roger a shove that sent him stumbling on to
the bed, then raced after Henry, dragging Bartholomew with him.

Outside, Henry was moving unsteadily in the direction of the cathedral. Bartholomew and Michael followed, with Michael wheezing
and growing more breathless at every step. A group of young monks scattered as Henry barrelled through the middle of them.
One of them was Welles, and another was Bukton.

‘Stop him!’ yelled Michael to Henry’s assistant as he drew closer. His bulk was already slowing him down, and he was red-faced
and gasping. ‘Henry murdered your almoner.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Welles indignantly. ‘Henry is no killer.’

‘He is,’ shouted Michael. ‘Why else would he be running from me?’

Bukton snatched at Michael’s sleeve as he ran past, pulling the monk off balance. ‘Henry is not your culprit,’ he cried. ‘Leave
him alone.’

‘We have all the evidence we need,’ said Michael, trying to extricate himself. ‘Let me go! You are interfering with the course
of justice.’

‘I do not care,’ said Bukton, maintaining his grip. ‘Henry is a good man, and I will not let you hang him.’

‘Nor I,’ determined Welles.

Bartholomew edged around the group, eluding Welles’s eager hands, and ran on. Welles detached himself from his friends and
chased after him, leaving Bukton to wrestle with the outraged Michael.

‘Where is Henry going?’ Bartholomew yelled over his shoulder to Michael.

‘The cathedral,’ gasped Michael, trying to push Bukton
away. Normally, he would have used fists, but it was hard to strike a lad who was trying to protect a man like Henry. Bukton
was permitted to take liberties that Michael would never have permitted in Cambridge. ‘For sanctuary at the High Altar. Once
he is there, we will not be able to touch him.’

Henry was making good time, and was heading for the cloister door. Bartholomew forced himself to run harder, determined to
catch the kindly killer before he could reach it. Welles, however, was a good sprinter, and was gaining on Bartholomew. The
physician felt a sharp tug as the young monk grabbed his shirt. He stumbled, losing valuable moments.

Welles leapt on him, trying to restrain him. Bartholomew struggled free and dashed on, leaving Welles gasping for breath on
the grass, but by now Henry had disappeared inside the cathedral. Bartholomew dashed to the door and hauled it open, listening
for footsteps that would tell him which way Henry had gone. He heard them in the south aisle – away from the High Altar, not
towards it – and glanced behind to see Welles sprinting quickly towards him. In the distance he saw Michael ploughing forward,
dragging Bukton along, as he made his more stately pursuit.

Bartholomew slammed the door hard, and looked for something to block it. The bolt was wholly inadequate, and was ridiculously
delicate, obviously intended only to keep the gate from blowing in the wind and not to prevent access to people from the priory
side of the cathedral. Bartholomew shot it closed, wishing there was a bar he could use to barricade it further. But there
was nothing to hand in the vast emptiness of the cathedral. He heard a crash when Welles reached the door and thumped into
it with his shoulder. The metal bolt bowed dangerously, and Bartholomew saw it would only be a few moments before Welles broke
it and came in.

The physician started to trot down the south aisle, looking for Henry among the shadows. There was nothing. He stopped running
and listened, but could only hear the
crashes and thumps Welles made as he pounded on the door. Bartholomew jogged on, not understanding why Henry should choose
the opposite direction from the place where he would be safe from pursuit. He ran harder then there was a booming sound and
the door flew open against the wall. Welles uttered a yell of victory when he spotted the physician.

Bartholomew reached the end of the nave and skidded to a halt, gazing wildly around him. Then he heard a sharp crack and a
patter, as some loose masonry fell to the ground in the crumbling north-west transept. Henry was climbing the scaffolding.

‘No!’ he cried, suddenly realising why Henry had not aimed straight for the sanctuary. ‘Henry! There is no need for this!’

He darted forward. Voices echoing loudly in the aisle indicated that Michael and Bukton had arrived, too, and were coming
towards him. Bartholomew rushed to the transept and looked up. A figure on the scaffolding was making its way higher and higher,
aiming for the roof. Bartholomew started to climb after him, intending to bring Henry down. But with a triumphant cry, Welles
reached him and grabbed one leg. Bartholomew found himself unable to move up or down.

‘Henry!’ he shouted, trying to kick free of the determined novice. ‘You do not need to do this. Come down and talk to Michael.’

He could feel vibrations of movement through the scaffolding as Henry continued to ascend, and struggled to free himself.
But with a monumental display of desperate strength, Welles swung all his weight on Bartholomew’s foot and the physician lost
his grip. He slipped to the floor, where Welles pinned him down. Bartholomew gazed up at the roof, disconcerted by the towering
framework above him, which seemed to be swaying.

‘It is going to fall!’ he heard Michael yell. ‘Matt, get out of there!’

Welles decided Michael was right. He released Bartholomew and scrambled away, and Bartholomew saw the entire structure begin
to topple. He leapt to his feet, and ran with his head down, aware of falling spars, plaster and pieces of timber clattering
all around him. He had only just cleared the transept when there was a tremendous crash, and the scaffolding came tumbling
to the ground in a mess of broken planks, crushed stones and coils of rope. Dust billowed, making it difficult to see.

Michael surged forward, peering into the mess. ‘Henry!’ he shouted. ‘Henry!’

But there was no reply.

Michael rounded on Welles, who was visibly shaken. ‘Look what you have done! If you had not tried to stop us, we would have
been able to catch him, and this would not have happened!’

‘You would have hanged him,’ said Welles, his eyes filling with tears when he realised that Henry was unlikely to have survived
the fall. ‘And he is a decent, kind man. I do not care what you say you have discovered.’

‘He murdered people,’ said Michael, trying to make them see reason. ‘And then your interference allowed him to kill himself.
I thought he came here for sanctuary, but the kind of sanctuary he had in mind was his own death.’

‘If he did all that, then he only harmed wicked people,’ said Welles loyally, white faced as a tear coursed its way down his
dusty cheek. ‘He loved the rest of us. He was patient with our faults, and he was gentle. He was the only man in the priory
who tried to help that horrible Julian.’

‘Julian is dead in the infirmary,’ said Michael harshly.

‘Then not before time,’ said Bukton, defiant but shaken. ‘If Julian had had no Henry to care for him, he would have been dead
a lot sooner. I do not care what you say, you will never persuade
me
that Henry was not a saint.’

‘I liked him myself,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is not pleasant to know that a man I have known and admired for years could
do such terrible things.’

‘He did not do terrible things,’ wept Welles. ‘He did things that made the priory better and made the town better.’

‘All right,’ conceded Michael. ‘But he broke the law.’

‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bukton uncompromisingly. ‘The townsfolk have a point when they claim the laws of the land
are unjust. The law would have hanged Henry.’

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He pointed to the wreckage of smashed scaffolding, where the body of
a monk swung slowly from side to side. A rope had caught around Henry’s neck, suspending him in midair a long way from the
ground. His hands hung limply at his sides, and the awkward angle of his head indicated that his neck was broken. Henry was
dead, and there was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or the novices could do about it.

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ Bartholomew repeated softly.

‘
T
HAT WAS ONE OF THE LEAST PLEASANT CASES I HAVE
ever worked on,’ said Michael two days later, as he and Bartholomew sat quietly together near St Etheldreda’s tomb in the
cathedral. ‘I felt no sympathy whatsoever for the victims, and a great admiration for the killer.’

‘Even after you discovered he was a murderer?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael nodded. ‘I have known Henry for years, and have always respected and liked him. I am not surprised young men like
Welles and Bukton were prepared to do all they could to save him.’

‘They knew he would have hanged, had you caught him.’

‘He would not,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Alan would not have permitted that, especially if you had provided evidence that hemp
had damaged his mind. He would have been sent away from Ely, though, and would not have been allowed near an infirmary again.
But how did he die? Could you tell, when you examined the body?’

‘The rope broke his neck. He died instantly.’

‘That is a mercy,’ said Michael. He stood, and began to walk out of the cathedral, pausing for a moment to glance at the ruin
of the north-west transept. ‘I shall think of him every time I come here. His sudden death means that he did not have time
to make a confession, and, according to Roger, he always allowed the men he killed to repent.’

‘That was good of him.’

Michael sighed, turning his flabby white face to the warmth of the sun as they left the cathedral and walked through the cloisters
towards the Black Hostry. ‘You knew Henry for only a few days, so I cannot expect you to understand. He
was
a
good man. Welles, Roger and the others are right.’

‘I suppose his pre-stabbing ritual partly accounts for the bruises on the victims’ faces,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully.
‘I assumed the killer was holding them to cut their necks, but he was also allowing them to make a final confession. I cannot
imagine what was going through his mind at that point.’

‘Nor me,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Roger revealed that he and Ynys helped Henry kill Chaloner and Haywarde. Then Henry took
the bodies to the river to get rid of them.’

‘They died late at night, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After they left the Lamb. What were two old men and Henry doing out
and about at that hour?’

Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Patients come to you at all hours of the day and night, and Henry’s were no different.
Also, remember that these were selfish men, who thought nothing of waking a physician just because they happened to feel the
need of one. One came to the infirmary with a sore thumb and the other an aching knee, apparently – both ailments that would
have kept until a more convenient hour.’

‘And so Henry copied Ralph’s murder of Glovere by putting the bodies in the river? He, like Ralph, hoped to pass the murders
off as suicides?’

‘Yes. When Mackerell came to sell Henry fish, Roger asked him how and where to dispose of corpses in the river. This resulted
in Mackerell assuming that Roger – not Henry – was the killer.’

‘That explains why Mackerell was afraid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He probably wanted to tell you what he knew, but suspected that
you would not believe that a frail old man like Roger had killed strong and fit men like Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘I would not have done,’ said Michael. ‘And neither did Mackerell, at first. Then he jumped to the conclusion that Roger was
possessed by water-spirits, who have the strength to do whatever they like.’

‘I suppose Mackerell thought Roger – and the water-spirits – would be unlikely to hunt for him in the Prior’s prison, and
so he asked Henry to lock him in. That was what Mackerell was doing when Symon spotted him in the monastery grounds.’

‘Henry did as Mackerell asked, then murdered him at the same time as he killed Symon. Mackerell called out in terror when
he realised that he had gone for help to the one person he should not have done. And that was the end of him.’

‘What will happen to the old men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Roger and Ynys?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael heavily. ‘When Alan tried to speak to them, they went back to pretending they were blind, deaf and
senile. He has decided to allow them to live out the rest of their lives in the infirmary. Henry did most of the killing,
and I do not think they will resume where he has left off.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew, who thought Alan foolish to dismiss the determined old men who had allied themselves
so readily to such a cause. They were soldiers, when all was said and done, and had wielded their weapons efficiently enough.
However, he supposed that Ynys’s damaged hip would keep
him
in bed a while at least.

‘Nor am I,’ said Michael. ‘It was Roger who killed Thomas, after all, and who poisoned William, whose only crime was trying
to fetch an independent investigator. But Alan thinks that spending their days being cared for by Bukton and Welles is punishment
enough. They are good lads, but they will not coddle the inmates as Henry did.’

‘Well, if I break a leg, please do not consign me to the priory’s infirmary,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘Roger or Ynys
would have a knife in me the instant I closed my eyes to sleep. I only hope any other monk sent there knows the danger he
might be in.’

‘Blanche left this morning,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘Her “appearance” in the Heyrow a few nights
ago with a lighted torch is causing a good deal of speculation. People claim they do not believe that a lady would do such
a thing, but there remains a lingering doubt, and that is enough to have driven her away.’

‘Has she dropped her charges against de Lisle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes. She now believes that Henry killed Glovere, because we proved he killed the others.’

‘You did not tell her that Ralph did it?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I did not. She would have accused de Lisle of ordering Glovere’s death, and we would have been
back to where we started.’

‘But de Lisle may well have ordered Ralph to kill Glovere,’ said Bartholomew.

‘If my Bishop had known Ralph was guilty, then he would not have appointed me to investigate.’

‘Not necessarily. He appointed you after Chaloner and Haywarde had died, remember? Perhaps he knew that Ralph killed Glovere,
but did not want him blamed for the other two, as well.’

Michael declined to answer. He rubbed his chin, then rummaged in his scrip to produce a thin piece of parchment. ‘When I was
going through Henry’s possessions yesterday I found this missive addressed to me, describing his murderous rampage over the
last few days. Everything we reasoned is essentially correct. It concludes by admitting that Ralph had given him the idea,
when he came to be absolved from Glovere’s murder.’

‘Why did he write this letter?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Was he planning to send it to you in Cambridge?’

‘He had compiled a list of victims,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘When everyone on the list had been “removed”, he was going to
leave Ely, to retire to some remote corner of the country. He wrote that his work at Ely would have been completed.’

‘And how far through this list was he?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that composing such an agenda was
a rather cold and calculating thing to do.

‘Almost at the end. I suppose that was why the last few victims were killed in such rapid succession – he wanted to finish.
The only one left was Father John. I thought Tysilia might be on it, but I am fairly sure her experience in the crumbling
transept was just an accident.’

‘Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why would she be on such a list? She is not evil.’

‘De Lisle thought someone had deliberately caused the fall, and with so many deaths it did seem suspicious for there to be
a sudden accident. But I think that was all it was.’

‘And why John?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has compassion for the poor, and is not one of those priests who cares only for his
personal gain.’

‘Henry believed that John is responsible for men like Leycestre plotting rebellion. He thought no good could come of it, and
wanted to remove John before matters grew out of hand. He may have been right, but John has disappeared from Ely anyway. Doubtless
he is being hidden by fellow rebels in the Fens.’

‘John had a lucky escape, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not only has he eluded Henry’s sharp knives, but he has evaded justice
for stealing the priory’s grain and giving it to the gypsies.’

‘It is ironic,’ mused Michael. ‘But one of the things that made Glovere unpopular in the town was his claim that one of Ely’s
citizens was the burglar. In the event, he was right: it was Leycestre.’

‘But Leycestre and his thefts had nothing to do with the murders. They were separate and unrelated events. The burglaries
were just that – and no one was killed when they were carried out.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘We now know everything about this case: Ralph killed Glovere; Henry slew Chaloner, Haywarde, Symon
the librarian, Almoner Robert – who was every bit as dishonest as his rival William believed – Mackerell the fish-man, and
Julian the lout; Roger
dispatched Sub-prior Thomas; and William’s death was a combination of Henry’s poison and Guido’s aggression.’

‘And Goran killed Ralph,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget that.’

‘There is de Lisle,’ said Michael, pointing to the Bishop, who was surrounded by his scurrying retinue, all rushing to pack
their belongings on to the impressive herd of horses waiting in the courtyard. ‘He plans to travel with us to Cambridge today,
before heading south to give the Archbishop of Canterbury an account of the events that led to a prelate being accused of
murder.’

‘I hope he has his excuses all worked out,’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘He would be wise to avoid the truth, given that
it was his own servant who precipitated all this mayhem.’

‘Are you ready to leave Ely?’ Michael asked him, wisely ignoring the comment, since de Lisle was probably close enough to
hear any response he might make. ‘Tonight, you will sleep in your own room at Michaelhouse, and can rest assured that you
are not in the same building as a killer.’

Bartholomew had lived in Cambridge long enough not to be so sanguine, but followed Michael to where the Bishop’s household
was packed and ready to go. Cynric and Meadowman also had ponies loaded with the few possessions the scholars had brought,
and were mounted and waiting.

‘Did you finish your reading in the library?’ asked Cynric as Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to his mount. ‘You did
not spend much time there.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘I have decided I would rather work at home. Prior Alan has given me two particularly valuable
medical books as a donation to Michaelhouse, and I shall have to be content with what I learn in those.’

‘And you have Henry’s notes,’ said Michael, pointing to a saddlebag that bulged with parchment.

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether he could bring himself to use them. It crossed his mind that, in
addition to the cures the infirmarian had developed over the years, he might discover a list of good ways to kill people.

‘Are you ready to go?’ asked de Lisle, trotting up to them. His horse was a splendid black beast that had been groomed until
its coat shone. Nearby, Tysilia slouched on a pony, a sullen expression on her face.

‘What is wrong with her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She looks furious.’

‘She is going back to the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent,’ said de Lisle. ‘I cannot have her with me when I visit the Archbishop
later this month; I do not think they would see eye to eye. And anyway, I do not have time to give her the constant attention
she needs now that Ralph is gone.’

‘I am sorry you lost such a faithful retainer,’ said Michael insincerely.

‘So am I. Tysilia let the gypsy into my house, thinking that she was being helpful. When Goran told her he had come to kill
Ralph, she thought he was speaking metaphorically.’

‘I doubt it,’ mumbled Bartholomew. ‘She would have taken Goran quite literally, and seen Ralph’s death as an opportunity to
escape from his protection for a night.’

De Lisle did not hear him, or gave no sign that he did. He continued. ‘She found herself with hours to do as she pleased.
She visited a number of taverns, and made various sorties to the stables, but I found her in the north-west transept the following
morning.’

‘I imagined her experiences with a certain gargoyle would have put her off that particular place,’ said Bartholomew, surprised.

‘She has already forgotten about that. I caught her tampering with the scaffolding. I have no idea what she did exactly, but
I cannot help but wonder whether it might have been more stable before she got to it.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘What are you saying? That Henry may have died because that woman fiddled around with things she
did not understand?’

De Lisle nodded slowly. ‘I cannot be certain, but I know she had undone some knots and retied others wrongly. She told me
it was like embroidery with large threads.’

‘Are you sure she should be set loose on the nuns?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘She is a danger to have around – as I have
told you before. Look what she did to the lepers.’

‘The nuns need the money,’ said de Lisle, as if that was all that mattered. ‘They will take her. But we should go, or we will
be travelling after dark.’ He grimaced. ‘Damn! I was about to call for Ralph. I shall miss that man. He obeyed my orders without
question, and I doubt I will ever find another servant like him.’

‘Henry’s letter said that Ralph was blackmailing him because he had guessed that Henry was the killer,’ said Michael. ‘So
Ralph was not a good man for you to employ. You are better without him.’

Bartholomew was aware that de Lisle was looking at Michael strangely. ‘
Ralph
was blackmailing
Henry
?’ he asked. ‘Not the other way around?’

‘Why should Henry blackmail Ralph?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘For his silence, after Ralph was foolish enough to confess,’ said de Lisle. ‘At least, that is what Ralph told me. Clever
old Ralph! He took money from me – which he said he was going to give Henry – and now I learn that he also took money from
Henry. Both for the same thing. It just goes to show that you never know people as well as you think.’ He gave them an absent
smile, and spurred his horse away, down the road that led to Cambridge.