A Summer of Discontent

‘If he has fled, Brother,’ said Bartholomew grimly. ‘It would not surprise me if he turned up floating in the river at some point, and the missing money was nowhere to be found.’

‘What are you saying? That someone packed away all William’s belongings, and then pretended to be him riding away on a gelding last night?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘Why not? His flight does not fit the evidence: he was investigating the murders on his own behalf, then, with no explanation, he left without a word to anyone. It is too odd.’

‘You would leave without a word if you thought you were about to be murdered and were running for your life.’

‘But why should he think such a thing? We have no evidence that he was afraid, or that he had discovered any dangerous secret.’

‘Perhaps he fled because he is the murderer, and he felt the net closing around him.’ Michael grimaced. While he did not much care for the bob-haired hosteller, he felt the man had some redeeming qualities, and did not like to think of him as the killer. He would have preferred the loathsome Robert or the gluttonous, selfish Thomas to be the culprit.

‘William as the killer means that he made good his escape last night, then returned today to dispatch Robert,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That does not make sense, even bearing in mind that they were bitter enemies.’

‘Perhaps William has not gone far,’ pressed Michael. ‘You are assuming that he has disappeared from the area, but perhaps he is close by, and intends to continue his deadly work until we can stop him. I have already sent Meadowman and Cynric to ask the people who live on the causeways whether they saw him leave the city.’

‘Good idea. But to continue with our list of people who have demonstrated curious behaviour, we also have Robert, whom Thomas accused of being involved before he had his fit.’

‘But obviously he is not the killer. Meanwhile, in the guesthouse, we have Blanche and her retinue. Tysilia has some strange relationship with William and knows more than she will tell, while you think Lady Blanche was in the Mermaid in the presence of gypsies, although, not surprisingly, she denies it. I do not like that Father John, either, or his association with those rabble rousers.’

‘Not liking someone is no reason to include them on our list of suspicious characters,’ said Bartholomew, smiling.

Michael grinned. ‘But it is satisfying to see them there.’

‘Going back to the priory, there are others we should keep an open mind about: there is Prior Alan, who must hate de Lisle for being appointed to the See he thought was rightfully his. There is Symon, who seems as feckless and shifty a man as I have ever encountered …’

‘You do not like him because he is a dismal librarian,’ observed Michael. ‘But there is that snivelling Julian, too. Yesterday, I caught him filing a key into a viciously sharp point. Lord knows what he was planning to do with it.’

‘Henry says he has an obsession with sharp implements, so we should definitely retain him on our list of suspects.’

‘Could it really be that simple?’ asked Michael. ‘A boy with a deep-rooted desire to do harm and a love of sharp objects?’

‘And then there is Henry,’ said Bartholomew, lowering his voice as he resumed the list. ‘Do not forget that he has access to sharp implements, too — a good many of them confiscated from Julian, I suspect, as well as his blood-letting devices.’

‘Henry could not have killed Robert,’ said Michael with a superior smile, knowing he could prove his point. ‘He was in the library when that happened. I heard him moving around up there, and so did you, when Robert was in the vineyard having his neck slit.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Henry can be discounted then. But your Bishop cannot. While he may not have wielded the knife himself, it would not surprise me if he knows who did.’

‘But that does not explain why he instructed me to investigate,’ said Michael. ‘If he wanted the truth left undisturbed, he should have asked someone sycophantic to investigate for him.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Brother, but in the past you have made no secret of the fact that you might alter the truth in order to achieve the verdict you want, and your Bishop is always delighted when things work to his satisfaction.’

‘But I am not prepared to overlook the murder of innocent people,’ objected Michael.

‘You might be if you considered hiding the truth was for the greater good. Both you and I have kept silent on matters in the past, when we thought it was better people did not know the truth. For example, no one but us knows that the martyred Simon d’Ambrey lies in Master Wilson’s grave in St Michael’s churchyard in Cambridge.’

‘That was different,’ said Michael. ‘Justice had been served, and we were merely tying up loose ends. Four murders are not loose ends, and I would not be prepared to see a killer go unpunished for such crimes.’