A Summer of Discontent

‘I am surprised he died this morning, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When he survived the night, I thought he was through the worst.’

‘I hoped so, too,’ said Henry. ‘But yesterday’s seizure was long and violent. To be frank, I thought he would slip away in his sleep last night. I was astonished that he still lived when I relieved you of the vigil at dawn.’

‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘Were you with him when he died?’

Henry’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. He tried to speak, but no words came.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I fell asleep,’ said Henry in a muffled whisper. ‘I did not work on the accounts while I watched over him, because I thought I might doze off with the heat and the lack of recent rest, and so I decided to mix Ynys’s medicine instead. But as soon as I sat down, I must have fallen into a slumber. Even if God sees fit to forgive me for this, I will never forgive myself!’

His voice cracked and he put both hands over his face as his shoulders shook with anguish. Michael turned him around and guided him through the hall, where he sat the distraught infirmarian down in his workshop. The old men slept fitfully, although Roger seemed to be watching what was happening. In the chamber at the far end of the hall, Bartholomew could see Prior Alan kneeling at the bed where Thomas lay. Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew’s wineskin still lay on the table, its contents untouched, so he poured some into a goblet and urged Henry to drink. After a few moments, Henry regained control of himself. His shuddering sobs subsided, and he was able to give them a wan smile.

‘I am sorry. I hate to lose a patient. It is not why I became a physician.’

‘You cannot blame yourself for falling asleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew you were exhausted; I should not have left you.’

‘I wish you had not,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I hope to God that poor Thomas did not wake to find he was alone in his last few moments of life.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

‘I sat here and began to grind the cloves,’ continued Henry unsteadily, ‘and the next thing I knew was that my head was on the table and Prior Alan was shaking my shoulder, asking whether I was unwell. I leapt to my feet and ran to Thomas, lest he had been calling for me, but he was dead. I hope it was a peaceful end.’

Bartholomew patted his shoulder, then went to look at the sheeted form that lay in Henry’s bed. While Alan continued to pray, and Henry and Michael looked on, Bartholomew pulled back the cover, and saw the still features of the sub-prior beneath, layers of fat already waxy white as they rippled away from his face. Bartholomew thought Henry’s diagnosis had been right, and the sub-prior had indeed slipped away in his sleep. But his stay in Ely had made him cautious: he slipped one hand under the back of Thomas’s neck and then withdrew it in alarm. Something cold and metallic was there.

Alan leapt to his feet in horror when Bartholomew tugged the inert figure on to its side, revealing the short blade that protruded from the base of its neck. The bed-covers below were stained red, and when Bartholomew touched the knife he found it was firm and unyielding under his fingers. Someone had forced it in very hard. However, there was no grazing of Thomas’s ears or cheeks, because the killer had not needed to secure his victim this time: Thomas had been powerless to defend himself.

‘No!’ cried Henry at the top of his voice. In the hall, the old men started to call out, frightened by the sudden clamour in their usually serene environment. ‘Not in my infirmary!’

‘My God!’ breathed Alan, crossing himself slowly. ‘My God!’

‘Well,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes. ‘Our killer is growing bold. Now he is taking his victims in broad daylight inside the priory itself, while Henry was only a short distance away.’

‘But I saw no one,’ whispered Henry. ‘I do not know how long I slept, but it could not have been more than a few moments. What have I done?’

‘You have done nothing,’ said Alan grimly. ‘It is not you who is prowling around killing sick men as they sleep.’

‘I shall never forgive myself!’ whispered Henry, his face as white as snow. ‘If I had not been so weak, I would have stayed awake and this would never have happened.’

‘You are assuming you would have been able to prevent it,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Your exhaustion probably saved your life, because the murderer is a ruthless man who would have killed you, too. You would not have been able to save Thomas, even if you had been awake.’

‘And I would have had a good deal more to grieve about,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Thomas was not one of Ely’s better monks, but you are. The priory would have lost a far greater prize in you than in Thomas.’

‘No!’ objected Henry, distressed. ‘You cannot say such things! Thomas occasionally gave me wine from his own cellars for my patients. He was not all bad.’