A Summer of Discontent

‘We can debate Benedictine wealth another time,’ said Michael quickly, seeing Bartholomew ready to argue. He handed Henry the cup. ‘What about this?’

‘No,’ said Henry, glancing at it without much interest. ‘Does it belong to the cathedral?’

‘Alan says not,’ said Michael.

‘He is right,’ said Julian, taking the cup from Henry and turning it in his hands. His touch was more covetous than curious, and Bartholomew thought that if it went missing, Julian would be the first person to question about its whereabouts.

‘How would you know?’ demanded Michael, snatching it back from him.

‘I was an altar boy before I became a novice,’ explained Julian. ‘But I have never seen this particular piece before.’

‘All right,’ said Michael, replacing the book and chalice inside the sack. ‘Now, I want you both to tell me exactly what happened when Thomas died.’

‘Again, Brother?’ asked Henry, his voice husky with tiredness. ‘It is a painful memory, and I would rather put it from my mind.’

‘And I am sleepy from the heat,’ added Julian. ‘I need my afternoon doze. Can we not do this later?’

‘Murder is not something that waits on sleeping times,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I shall allow you to tell me your story first, and then you can escape, since you seem more interested in that than in justice.’

Julian bridled, but began his story. ‘I left the refectory with Welles and came here. He said he was going to buy fruit, while I went straight to the herb room. That is one of the two small chambers at the opposite end of the hall to where Thomas was lying and Henry was sleeping.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently, seeing Henry wince. ‘We all know what the infirmary looks like: there is the hall where the old men live; at one end is the workshop with the herb room beyond, and at the other end are the two chambers where you and Henry sleep.’

‘Thomas was in one of those,’ said Bartholomew for clarification. ‘In other words, the hall and the workshop were between Julian and Thomas.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Julian. ‘So I heard and saw nothing. I was busy crushing saffron, anyway. I had the door closed, so that the noise would not disturb the patients.’

‘I taught him to do that,’ said Henry to Michael. ‘We always keep the doors closed when we are making medicines. However, the door between my chamber and Thomas’s was open so that I could hear him if he called out, but the killer must have come in stockinged feet. I do not sleep heavily.’

‘But you were exhausted,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Perhaps under normal circumstances you might have woken, but you had had several bad nights, and you had worked hard to try to save Thomas. In any case, the floor is stone, and so it is easy to walk silently.’

‘That is usually a good thing,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘It would not do to have creaking floorboards every time I tend a patient during the night.’

‘The killer must have felt himself blessed indeed,’ mused Michael. ‘Welles at the market, Julian in the herb room, and Henry in an exhausted slumber and uncharacteristically deaf. Perhaps one of the old men heard something.’

‘You can try asking,’ said Henry, although he did not sound hopeful. ‘One is deaf, two are blind, and none is in his right wits. Even Roger’s mind wanders from time to time, and he is the most lively of them all.’

‘Matt can talk to them, while I visit Blanche,’ said Michael. ‘Continue with your tale, Julian. You were in the herb room, chopping saffron.’

‘I was there from just after breakfast.’ Julian showed them orange-stained hands. ‘Henry did not need me to sit with Thomas, although I offered.’

‘I could not trust you,’ said Henry, for once critical of the novice he was determined to save. ‘You are not good at anticipating a patient’s needs, and you might have fallen asleep.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Julian shot back.

Henry fell silent.

‘Did you hear or see anything that might help us?’ asked Michael of Julian. He stepped closer, and there was more menace in the question than was necessary. Julian edged away, but Bartholomew moved behind him, deliberately making the lad feel there was no escape. Bartholomew considered Julian a wholly loathsome specimen, and hoped Michael’s questioning would put the fear of God into him.

‘No,’ said Julian desperately. ‘I told you. I was crushing saffron, which involves using a pestle and mortar and is fairly noisy. And the door was closed. There is a window, but my back was to it. I heard and saw nothing until Welles came. By then, Thomas had been declared dead and he and I were ordered to wash the body.’

‘You did not hear me arrive and examine Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ said Julian. ‘To be frank, crushing saffron is so tedious that I had lulled myself into a sort of working drowse. I heard nothing.’