A Summer of Discontent

‘He has,’ said Bartholomew, feeling a surge of anger against William for taking advantage of someone so clearly short of wits. The only good thing was that it would not take Tysilia long to forget her fictitious brother, and that she would soon go back to her normal life — being placed with someone who tried hard to look after her while she made plans to escape that would never work. He wondered whether her sojourn in Ely would result in yet another pregnancy. To his knowledge, she had already been through three, and could not be made to understand the connection between inconvenient children and her promiscuous lifestyle. He was only grateful that Michael had taken fright at her determined wooing.

‘Let us go back to the cup,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject. He knew he would not make Tysilia believe that she and William were not related when she had decided that they were.

‘What cup?’ she asked, looking around her as though she expected one to materialise.

‘The cup Blanche claims was stolen,’ he said, trying not to become exasperated. ‘The one you stole to give to William. Did he ask you to take that particular item?’

‘Of course not,’ she said indignantly. ‘But it was pretty and I thought he would like it.’

‘Where is he? You were very worried about him yesterday, and now you do not seem concerned at all. Has he fled this area and gone somewhere safe?’

She clutched her doll tightly, as if she gained strength from it. ‘I do not know where he is, but he has not fled, because he said he would take me with him. I am still here, so he must be nearby.’

‘So, did you give the cup to William?’

‘I was going to give it to him to prove my affection, but he did not arrive to meet me as he promised, so I hid it in the cemetery. But you know that, because you found me there.’

‘I did not know you were hiding stolen property,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you tell William that you would secrete anything there that you managed to steal?’

‘I was not stealing,’ said Tysilia crossly. ‘I took what she owed me for my company over the last few months. The good things in life are not cheap, as my uncle says.’

‘Then someone must have seen you putting it there,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is possible that it was William — that he did not approach you because I was there, and he could not afford to be seen with you.’

He gazed at her vacant face as he thought about what she had told him. Was William the kind of man to relieve a silly woman of her property and then flee with it to save himself from the killer? Had he put the cup in the bag in the granary, along with the book and the gold? But then why had he left it? Did he plan to return, and take not only the treasure, but Tysilia, too? Or was he already dead, yet another victim of the killer’s slim blade? Or could he be the one with the blade, who was even now fingering it as he considered his next victim?

‘Is there any more you can tell me about William or Blanche — or anyone at all — that may help Brother Michael to help catch this killer?’

He did not hold much hope that any significant facts had lodged themselves in the peculiar mess of ideas and fantasies that passed as her mind, and was surprised to see her nod. ‘I know a good deal. But I will only tell Brother Michael, since it is he who is looking for this killer.’

‘We must go,’ said Ralph, tired of waiting for her. ‘I do not want to lose my job because you have kept me out all day. I like working for the Bishop.’

‘What were you going to tell me?’ asked Bartholomew of Tysilia. ‘I promise to pass any information to Brother Michael.’

‘I do not trust you,’ said Tysilia. ‘I will tell Michael or no one. Tell him to meet me here, at this door, at midnight tonight.’

‘How do you think you will gain access to the priory at that hour?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling at the ludicrous nature of her proposal. ‘And what do you think the Bishop will say when he learns you wander the town at night meeting men?’

‘He will not know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘My chamber is on the ground floor, and I only need to climb out of the window. And I will do what William told me to do when I met him late at night. I will borrow my uncle’s cloak, raise the hood and join the end of the procession of monks as they leave the cathedral after the midnight mass.’

Bartholomew considered her suggestion. Was Tysilia the cloaked figure who had wandered into the hospital and murdered Thomas while Henry dozed within hearing distance? He shook his head impatiently. He knew perfectly well that she was not sufficiently clever to carry out a careful and meticulous murder and leave no clues. But could she have done it if William had told her how? He rubbed a hand through his hair, but then decided that he could not be more wrong. Tysilia was exactly what she appeared to be, and she did not have the wits to pretend otherwise.

‘Michael will not come unless he knows you have something useful to tell him,’ he said. ‘And I see nothing to suggest that is the case.’