A Summer of Discontent

‘Did it ever occur to you that your mother might have been a lady like Blanche?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew held his breath. Educating Tysilia about her parentage was not something for discussing at such a time or in such a place, and he was surprised that Michael was prepared to broach such a delicate subject.

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia carelessly. ‘But she must have been a real beauty to produce me, so that takes Blanche out of the running. She looks like a pig.’

‘De Lisle told me that Blanche was extremely pretty when she was young,’ pressed Michael.

‘But he has sworn one of those vows of celery, so he is no judge,’ said Tysilia.

For the first time, it occurred to Bartholomew that in later life Tysilia might come to resemble the woman she claimed to find so ugly. Tysilia would be a lot bigger than the squat, buxom Blanche, and the combination would not be an attractive one. He had always considered Tysilia’s claims of beauty rather exaggerated in any case. He felt a surge of compassion for the bleak future she faced, when her looks would no longer guarantee her the lovers she craved.

‘Anyway,’ Tysilia went on, ‘there is a very good reason why Blanche cannot have mothered me. She is not William’s mother, so she cannot be mine.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in exasperation. Bartholomew heard him clear his throat, then adopt a more reasonable tone. ‘Tell us about William. How did you meet? Was he ever your lover?’

Tysilia sighed heavily. ‘Of course not! I am not a pervert, you know.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘You should tell Michael that decent women do not take their siblings to bed.’

‘I am sure he needs no tuition from me about suitable bed-mates,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you take Blanche’s cup?’

‘I took it because William promised to spirit me away from this place,’ said Tysilia. ‘I happen to know that staying in clean taverns and hiring horses is expensive. I have travelled a lot while attending the University of Life.’

‘Did you take the book, too?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the fact that most of the time she was locked up somewhere fairly remote.

‘No. I only removed things that would be easy to sell.’

‘A chalice would not have been easy,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Any monk or friar would take it,’ said Tysilia carelessly, and Bartholomew could see the white gleam of her vacant grin, even in the darkness. ‘They spend all their lives in churches, and so we could have sold a chalice to any of them.’

‘Not many would buy one that they thought was stolen,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Rubbish,’ said Tysilia and Michael at the same time. Bartholomew saw Tysilia interpret this as a sign that they were made for each other, and she moved closer to him again. Michael stepped around Bartholomew, and the physician found himself in the middle of an unpleasant grappling contest until he pushed them both firmly away.

‘Do you think one of Blanche’s retinue might have owned this book?’ he asked tiredly. It was very late, and he was growing weary of prising information from Tysilia. He began to acknowledge that Michael was right, and that she knew nothing worth telling after all.

‘None of them can read,’ said Tysilia. ‘A book is no good if you cannot read it, unless it has a lot of pictures. Those are the ones I like.’

‘Tell us about William,’ said Bartholomew, electing not to mention that the book they had found was full of beautiful illustrations. That she seemed not to know was probably proof that she was not the person who had stolen it. He sensed Michael was as exasperated with the interview as he was, and decided it was time to draw it to a close. ‘You said you knew a lot about him earlier. You were afraid that he might be in danger. Are you still afraid?’

‘I had forgotten about that,’ said Tysilia, glancing around her in agitation. ‘You should not have reminded me. Now I feel frightened, and Michael will have to put his arms around me.’

‘Michael will not,’ said the monk firmly. ‘Why did you think William was in danger?’

‘Glovere was dead,’ replied Tysilia. ‘And William said that he and I would be the killer’s next victims.’

‘Why did he say that?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling that they were finally getting somewhere.

‘Because I was speaking too loudly,’ said Tysilia sulkily. ‘He said we would be next because I was shouting, and that people would see us together when we met in the cemetery.’

Michael made an impatient sound. ‘He did not mean that literally. It sounds as though he was just trying to make you understand the need for discretion.’

‘Glovere died because he had enemies,’ Tysilia went on, oblivious to Michael’s frustration. ‘When I was still with Blanche, he told me that someone might try to kill him. He did not appear to take it seriously. But it seems he should have done.’

‘Who was going to kill him?’ demanded Michael immediately.