A Summer of Discontent

‘I do not know. Blanche said he was talking about the Bishop, but dear, sweet Uncle would harm no one. And then later, when I met William again, he told me there were dangerous people in Ely. He did not say who, though, before you ask.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. When he spoke again, his voice was more gentle; apparently he had decided he would learn more from her with kindness. ‘We must catch the killer before more lives are lost, Tysilia. Can you think of anything — anything at all — that might help us? Did William give you any clues about the identity of the killer?’

‘No,’ said Tysilia. ‘He talked about the places we would see together when we left Ely, but he said we would always come back here.’

‘Did he indeed?’ said Michael, surprised. ‘I had assumed that his removal of some of the priory’s property would have eliminated the notion of a triumphant return. Where did he say you might go?’

‘Upriver,’ said Tysilia. ‘But only for a short time. He was going to be Prior when Alan died, then Bishop when my uncle dies.’

‘How long have you known William?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tysilia regarded him uncertainly. ‘He is my brother. So I have known him since I was born, although I only met him a few days ago. But why are you asking all these questions when Michael and I could be doing something much more fun?’

‘Did you notice any change in William’s behaviour as time went on?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to become sidetracked. ‘Has he seemed different to you? Nervous or uneasy?’

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia. ‘There is a killer on the loose. Who in his right mind would not be nervous or uneasy? That is why I am nervous and uneasy. I am in my right mind, you see.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You have been very helpful.’

‘I know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘Everything I say is interesting and useful. But you owe me something for all my time. What do you say to a little-’

‘Matt will see you safely home,’ said Michael briskly, stepping away from her exploring hands once again. ‘I am too tired for anything you have in mind.’

‘But that is not fair!’ cried Tysilia in abject disappointment. Her voice was loud, and Bartholomew heard a lull in the chatter from the Outer Hostry above. ‘I have helped you, and now you must give me what I want.’

‘It is not fair,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I do not want to wander the town in the dark, either. I want to go to bed.’

‘But I do not want you in my bed,’ pouted Tysilia, mistaking his words for an offer. ‘I want Brother Michael.’

‘I am not available,’ proclaimed Michael grandly. ‘Go home, Tysilia, and take a cold bath.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ grumbled Michael when Bartholomew returned from seeing Tysilia safely back through the Bishop’s window a little later. The monk was waiting by the Steeple Gate so that some officious doorkeeper would not lock the physician out. He need not have worried: the lay-brother who guarded the door was sleeping soundly in his small chamber, and Michael was surprised his snores could not be heard by the Prior in his quarters. He recalled that Welles claimed to have slipped past him around the time that Thomas was murdered. ‘We should not have bothered to disturb our rest for that.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So why did you tell her she had been helpful? She was not.’

‘Tactics,’ replied Michael, vaguely. ‘If she is the accomplice of an evil killer, then he will be worried by my claim that she has assisted us. It may make him sufficiently anxious to do something rash, and may serve to flush him out.’

‘Or it may tell the killer that we know more than we do and put our lives in danger. I am not sure that was a wise thing to do.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael carelessly, as he closed the gate. ‘But it is irrelevant anyway: she knows nothing of interest and my cleverness was wasted.’

‘Do you think William is the killer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And that he is watching the city from a safe distance before selecting his next victim?’

‘I have no idea what William is or what his motives were in leaving. How Tysilia could believe that he is her brother is wholly beyond my understanding.’

‘She believes what she wishes were true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Blanche. It sounds as if she tried hard to communicate with Tysilia, but Tysilia was too stupid to understand what she was being told.’

‘Well, we will find out more tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘We shall go upriver and see whether we can find this spot where the townsmen were murdered. Perhaps we will learn something new then.’

‘I hope so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because if not, we have reached a dead end, and I do not know which way to turn next.’

Michael sighed. ‘The annoying thing is that I do not feel like sleeping any more. That Tysilia has unnerved me. I am wide awake, and my mind is teeming with questions.’

‘You will fall asleep once you lie down,’ said Bartholomew, who was suffering from no such complaint and was extremely drowsy.