A Summer of Discontent

‘I will not,’ declared Michael with grim determination. ‘I shall lie awake for hours. Then I shall disturb Northburgh and Stretton, who share my bedchamber. I feel like walking, to tire myself.’

‘What, now?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around unenthusiastically at the darkened buildings. ‘It is pitch black, and you said yourself that the killer could well be at large in the priory grounds. Walking alone in the dark is not a sensible thing to do.’

‘I was not thinking of going alone,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you would come with me. Besides, it is a hot and sticky night. You need to cool down before you head for your own bed.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘You are mad, Brother. But very well. Where do you want to go? Shall we risk breaking our necks on the graves in the cemetery, or shall we settle for a stumble among the roots of the vineyard?’

‘We can keep to the paths,’ said Michael testily. He gazed up at the sky. The clouds had parted, revealing a huge patch of sugar-spangled velvet. The stars seemed more bright than usual in the moonless sky, gleaming and flickering in their thousands. A white smear showed the presence of a belt of stars too small to be seen with the naked eye, although the ancient philosophers assured their readers that they were there.

Since they had met Tysilia, a light breeze had sprung up, rendering the night far more pleasant, despite Michael’s grumbles regarding the heat. It fanned their faces, blowing cool air from the east. In it was the faint tang of salt, reminding Bartholomew that a vast boggy sea lay only a few miles away. The breeze carried other scents, too, which were less pleasant: the sulphurous odour of the rotting vegetation and stagnant water that were the cause of so many summer fevers, and the stench of the city itself. Bartholomew fell into step with Michael, allowing the monk to lead them in a wide circle around the north wall of the cathedral and then towards the almonry.

Bartholomew thought about Robert, who had died while looking for William. The almoner now lay next to Thomas in the cathedral’s Lady Chapel, a great white whale of a corpse next to one that was darker and more swarthy in death than it had been in life. Both were due to be buried the following day, and the pomp and ceremony that was planned reflected the priory’s indignation that two of their number had been mercilessly slain, rather than genuine grief. Only Henry had shown any emotion other than outrage.

The almonry was a two-storeyed building that overlooked Steeple Row, and that had contained Robert’s lodgings as well as a dispensary for alms. Next to it was the sacristy, where the sacristan lived, along with all the sacred vessels and vestments that belonged to the cathedral and the monastery. Then there was a stretch of wall, and then the Bone House, where they had examined Glovere.

Bartholomew gazed at the Bone House with unease, thinking it a sinister place. He had encountered charnel houses aplenty, but these tended to be repositories for bones that were so ancient that they were all but unrecognisable. The Bone House contained rows of grinning skulls, many of them still boasting fragments of hair and patches of dried skin. One had even worn a hat — slipped at a crazy angle across one eye, but a cap, nevertheless.

‘There is a light in the Bone House,’ he said, startled out of his grim reverie. ‘Did you see it?’

‘No,’ said Michael, peering through the darkness. ‘You must have imagined it. No one is likely to be in the Bone House in the middle of the night.’

‘There it is again!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. There was a flicker, just under the shutter of the upper window. ‘You must have seen it!’

Michael frowned. ‘No one should be in there. Only a madman would want to be in the company of all those dead folk in the dark.’

‘Perhaps a madman, like our killer,’ said Bartholomew, gripping Michael’s arm, as a way to solve the murders suddenly opened up to him. ‘We should investigate this.’

‘We should find Cynric and Meadowman,’ said Michael, holding back. ‘This killer is a dangerous man.’

‘You are not afraid, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s reluctance to investigate. ‘He is only one man, Brother; we can tackle him between us.’

‘How do you know he is only one man? We have always assumed it is a single person, but there is nothing to confirm that we are right. It could be a group of men, all armed to the teeth, and with a good deal more experience of fulfilling their murderous intentions than either of us.’

‘I do not think so. Our killer works alone.’

‘And how are you suddenly so certain, pray?’

‘Simple logic, Brother. If there were two or more, working together, then one would hold the victim still while the other did the cutting. The grazing on the face and ear indicates that the victims were held down by means of a foot or a knee on their heads. There would be no reason to use feet and knees while there were hands to spare. Ergo, these murders look like the work of a single man.’