A Summer of Discontent

Roger nodded. ‘He was walking slowly, his head bowed in prayer, and he was making the sign of the cross.’

‘Symon!’ exclaimed Michael in satisfaction. ‘We already have his confession that he cut through the infirmary hall to reach his library.’

‘Did you see this figure enter the hall the same way?’ asked Bartholomew loudly.

Roger gave one of his pink smiles. ‘I saw no one arrive — I doze, you see, so I may have been sleeping — but I saw this fellow leave, after kneeling a while with Thomas. As I said, it appeared as though he was praying as he went.’

‘You observed the way he walked, and yet you cannot tell me whether he was a monk?’ said Michael, in disbelief.

‘Not very often,’ said Roger, answering whatever he thought Michael had asked. ‘Few of the younger ones bother with us, and visitors are rare. Prior Alan comes occasionally, but apart from Henry, that vile Julian and young Welles, we seldom see anyone. That was why I noticed the fellow who came to see Thomas.’

‘Can you describe him?’ yelled Bartholomew. ‘WHAT WAS HE WEARING?’

‘I could not see whether he had an ear-ring,’ replied Roger, puzzled by the question. ‘Not that I would have noticed, given that his hood was up. He must be like me, and feels the cold.’

‘He did not want to be seen,’ said Michael. ‘And he wore this cloak for the same reason.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘I did not see Symon wearing a cloak.’

‘But Alan’s prior’s habit is cloak-like,’ suggested Bartholomew softly.

‘All our robes would look cloak-like to Roger,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘He does not see well. Besides, we are Benedictine monks, and all of us own dark cloaks with hoods that we could use for a disguise.’

‘But it would be unusual to wear one today,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is hot, and anyone wearing a cloak would stand out as odd.’

‘He probably removed it as soon as he left the infirmary via the rear door,’ said Michael, disgusted. ‘Damn it all! Here we have a man who actually saw this killer, and all he can tell us is that the fellow disguised himself.’

‘Thomas was murdered,’ shouted Bartholomew to Roger. ‘Can you tell us any more about this person you saw? It is very important.’

‘Thomas’s mother?’ asked Roger, confused. ‘What does she have to do with this? I imagine she is long since in her grave.’

‘THOMAS WAS MURDERED!’ yelled Bartholomew.

‘The Scots are here!’ howled Ynys. ‘Lock up your cattle!’

‘Murdered?’ demanded Roger. ‘You told me he had a seizure. Which is it?’

‘One led to the other,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Can you tell us any more about this visitor?’

‘I saw him only for an instant,’ said Roger. ‘It is a pity: now I know what he did, I wish I had shaken his hand. But I have told you all I know: I glimpsed a figure leaving Thomas’s room, and he was praying — probably asking God to reward him for the good he had done.’

‘That is not kind,’ said Henry admonishingly. ‘And if you know anything at all, you should tell Michael so that he can prevent more people being harmed.’

‘I know nothing more,’ said Roger. ‘I wish him luck in evading you, though. There are plenty more of our “sainted” brethren whom the priory would be better without.’

‘Like who?’ asked Michael curiously. Roger leaned forward in exasperation, pulling his ear to indicate that Michael should speak louder. ‘WHO ELSE WOULD THE PRIORY BE BETTER WITHOUT?’

‘Robert,’ replied Roger immediately. ‘He steals alms intended for the poor, and has been doing it for years. It is also a wicked sin to demand payment from the pilgrims who visit our shrine. And William is not much better.’

‘He steals from the priory, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He pits one man against another, so that their division will make him stronger. It would not surprise me to learn that he is behind this cruel slander against the Bishop.’

‘Would it not?’ mused Michael softly. ‘Now that is interesting.’

When their questions showed that Roger knew nothing more, and that the list of monks he wanted to send to an early grave were those to whom he had taken a personal and frequently irrational dislike, Bartholomew and Michael left the infirmary and went to the Outer Hostry, to speak to Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue.

Blanche was just sitting down to a meal, and her table was almost as loaded with food as were the ones in the monks’ refectory. There were roasted trout, plates of boiled eel, a huge pot of parsnips and a dish of bright green peas. There was bread, too, in tiny loaves made from the priory’s finest white flour. She glanced up when the two scholars tapped on the door, but did not stop her dining preparations. She rolled up her sleeves, so that grease would not spoil them, while a lady-in-waiting tied a large piece of cloth around her neck. A sizeable knife, the blade of which had been honed so many times that it had been worn into a sharp point, was presented to her, and then she was ready.