A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew took his arm and led him inside the Bone House. The smoke was dissipating, and the stink of burning was losing its battle against the more powerful odour of rotting bone. He indicated that Michael should perch on the overturned barrel for a few moments, to recover himself. The monk sat heavily, forcing Bartholomew to make a grab for it when it threatened to roll. On the shelf under the window was a small dish and a candle stub, apparently used by workmen when they brought their finds for storage. The physician struck a tinder, and filled the room with an unsteady, flickering light. Michael glanced up at him, and then gasped in horror.

‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew, looking around him in alarm.

‘Blood!’ muttered Michael, rubbing a shaking hand across his eyes. ‘Lots of it.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, snatching up the candle. Then he saw what Michael meant. The floor was stained dark with congealing blood, much of it scuffed and spread by their feet during the skirmish that had taken place. ‘Oh.’

‘Not on the floor,’ whispered Michael, raising fearful eyes to Bartholomew. ‘On you. He must have stabbed you after all. I am having a conversation with a ghost!’

Bartholomew twisted, and saw that the shoulder and arm of his shirt were stained a bright red. Horrified, he felt the back of his neck, but there was no wound that he could find, and certainly no tenderness. He knew very well that some men were stabbed or shot and did not know pain until later, but he was certain he would be able to feel something. And then he remembered the drops of moisture that had dripped as he waited for the killer to descend the ladder. It was not his own blood that stained his shirt. His instincts told him to rush up the ladder immediately, to see if he could help, but the rational part of his mind informed him that there would be little he could do for anyone relieved of as much blood as lay pooled on the floor of the Bone House. His first duty was to the living, to Michael, who gazed at him with eyes that were wide with shock.

‘Drink this,’ he said, reaching into his bag and producing a phial. It was stronger than the brew he usually used for shocks, but Henry still had his other one. ‘And then we will go upstairs and see what has happened.’

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, regarding the phial suspiciously. ‘I do not like drinking medicine handed to me in the dark. You may make a mistake and hand me a purge.’

‘Just strong wine.’

‘Wine,’ said Michael, taking it from him eagerly. ‘That is more like it. I had forgotten you have taken to carrying a little something around with you these days.’

‘It is not for me, and not for casual drinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is for emergencies.’

‘This is an emergency,’ said Michael, putting his lips to the neck of the flask and all but emptying it in a single swallow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘That is better. Wine is indeed a good remedy for unsteady nerves.’

‘Are you feeling better, then?’ asked Bartholomew, holding the candle closer to Michael’s face. He was relieved to see that some of the colour was creeping back into the monk’s cheeks, and his eyes were losing their haunted expression.

‘I do not know which was worse: having a killer land on me, or seeing him prepared to make an end of you. I thought my lunge with the spade was too late.’

‘You hit him?’

‘As hard as I could. However, it was not as hard as I would have liked — this is a small room, and there was no opportunity to swing the thing properly. I imagine it brought tears to his eyes, though.’

‘Where did you hit him?’

‘I was afraid he might duck if I aimed for his head, and then I would be off balance and he might succeed in stabbing us both. I aimed for his shoulders, but actually caught him on the back. Why do you ask?’

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘If you had injured his face, we might have been able to identify him tomorrow. But it will be difficult to see whether anyone has a bruised back.’

‘I should have thought of that,’ said Michael caustically. ‘I seem to be slipping tonight. First, I let a killer go because I was more interested in trying to save your life, and then I hit him in a place where you will not be able to see the wound.’

‘I did not mean to sound ungracious,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I am just frustrated that we had the damned man in our clutches, but he still managed to escape.’

‘It is too late to worry about that now. We did our best. It is not our fault we are not experts at wrestling in the dark with murderers, although we have done it often enough. Our performance tonight was not our finest hour. I am not a man for superstition, as you know, but I cannot help but think there was something diabolical about his strength.’

‘There was not. We stumbled around like old ladies, and he merely took advantage of our ineptitude. He was not as diabolical as our performance.’

Michael smiled wanly.