A Summer of Discontent

‘I will tell him about William,’ said Tysilia.

Bartholomew gazed at her. People tended to dismiss her as a lunatic, and to ignore her presence when they were up to no good. Therefore, she often saw or heard things that were important and, occasionally, she even recalled some of it. It was just possible that she had something relevant to say about the hosteller.

‘Midnight,’ she whispered again, her breath hot on his cheek. ‘Tell Brother Michael to come and meet me right here.’ She paused, and then treated Bartholomew to a smile that was mostly leer, so that the physician was sure she had more in mind than an innocent exchange of information. ‘And tell him to come alone.’

Chapter 9

‘The last time we arranged to meet someone after dark in a quiet place, he never appeared, and we have seen neither hide nor hair of him since,’ grumbled Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat together in the priory refectory later that evening. ‘I cannot believe you allowed Tysilia to make the same arrangement with you. Especially on my behalf.’

They had missed the evening meal — Michael because he had been questioning the monks about Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew because he had been in the library and had lost track of time — but Michael had learned that Symon had been inaugurated as temporary hosteller in the absence of William, and had hunted him out to provide him with a list of items he would consider devouring at a privately served meal. Too inexperienced to know how to deal with a demanding glutton like Michael, Symon had obliged to the smallest detail, and the repast that was set out in front of them was intimidating.

‘This is enough to feed King Edward’s entire army,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the spread in dismay. ‘How do you imagine we will ever finish it?’

‘Experience tells me that we shall make a respectable impact,’ said Michael comfortably, tucking a piece of linen under his chin, and rubbing his hands together. He looked like Blanche, so sure she would make a mess that she took precautions before she began. ‘And what we do not finish will be given to the poor, so we are doing them a favour, in a way.’

It seemed a peculiar way of viewing matters, but Bartholomew was in no mood for an argument. His mind was still fixed on Thomas, and how the killer had waited until the sick man had been left alone before slipping unseen into the hospital to do his deadly work. It did not make him feel easy, and a chilling sensation ran down the back of his neck. He glanced behind him, half expecting to see someone with a thin blade in his hand. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Bishop Northburgh there, with Canon Stretton at his heels.

‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is not wise to sneak up behind men when there is a killer on the loose, my Lord Bishop. You will cause them to have seizures, like Sub-prior Thomas.’

‘I am not the kind of man to have seizures,’ said Northburgh with a vague smile. Bartholomew stared at him. The Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield was persistently fluttery and irritable, and the mere mention of a disease induced him to imagine its symptoms, but now he seemed unnaturally calm. In fact, Bartholomew thought there was something not quite right about the man. He glanced at Stretton, whose heavy features were creased into a curiously beatific grin, and wondered what they had been doing together.

‘How is your investigation coming along?’ Northburgh asked pleasantly of Michael. ‘Discovered anything new?’

‘But you resolved the case the moment you arrived, Northburgh,’ said Stretton fawningly to his companion, his voice rather slurred. ‘De Lisle said he did not kill Glovere.’

‘True, but someone did,’ said Northburgh. ‘And that is why we are here, Brother Michael. We are enjoying our sojourn in Ely, and Henry is working to find a cure for wrinkled skin for me, but I feel we should be doing something more about these charges laid against poor de Lisle.’

‘You should not drive Henry to pursue pointless remedies,’ said Bartholomew, nettled by the man’s insensitivity. ‘He is exhausted from looking after his old men and distressed by the death of Thomas. He needs to rest, not scour the library for literature on your behalf.’

‘I have promised Ely Cathedral a chapel if Henry can oblige me,’ said Northburgh, strangely unperturbed by Bartholomew’s sharp reprimand. ‘Alan will ensure he succeeds.’

‘So, what do you want from us?’ asked Michael warily. ‘I know of no cure for gizzard neck, and Matt is too busy to start experimenting with animal grease and nut juice.’

‘We have decided that we want you to investigate these murders, Brother,’ said Stretton, sounding rather surprised by Michael’s question. ‘Northburgh thinks we should not leave until we have a culprit hanged, and we thought we should allow you to find us one.’

‘Too many men making enquiries could cause problems,’ elaborated Northburgh. ‘So, Stretton and I have elected to let you do it.’