A Summer of Discontent

‘Yes,’ said Henry, pointing a finger in accusation. ‘I think his spirit blames me for where it is.’

‘Purgatory?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Hell! A man like Thomas will not be in Purgatory: he was too selfish and greedy. But did you learn anything from your meeting with that woman? You told me you were going to meet the Bishop’s niece, although how a good man like that can be related to such a wanton soul is wholly beyond me.’

‘De Lisle is fond of her,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting the kindly infirmarian to know that the relationship was a good deal closer than everyone was led to believe.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Henry. ‘He is complex: arrogant and condescending one moment, but capable of great acts of kindness and compassion the next. Did you know that during the Death he was tireless in his care of the sick? He visited the houses of the poor to grant them absolution before they died without a thought for his own safety. How many bishops did that?’

‘Not many,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And his care of Tysilia shows him in a good light. He has taken her to all sorts of places in an attempt to find somewhere she might be happy. She even spent a short spell in a leper hospital.’

‘Why there?’ asked Henry, bewildered. ‘That does not sound very safe.’

‘Brother Urban is good with diseases of the mind, and de Lisle wanted him to observe Tysilia, to see whether anything could be done for her.’

‘Nothing can,’ said Henry confidently. ‘The disease is permanent and incurable. She is a lunatic, and that is all there is to it. She is probably harmless, but she will never find a place in normal society.’

Bartholomew’s own experiences with Tysilia led him to concur with Henry’s diagnosis. ‘She told us little of use last night. Everything she said was hearsay, and she knows nothing that can help us. But you say you left the cathedral after midnight. Did you see anything unusual?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Michael and I met the killer last night. He was doing something horrible with pots of dirt and what appeared to be the parts of a dead pig. We disturbed him at his work and wrestled with him, but he escaped.’

‘You encountered him?’ breathed Henry in horror. ‘You had this man in your grasp and you let him go?’

‘We did not do it intentionally,’ said Bartholomew, slightly testily. ‘But it happened just after midnight, so did you see anything?’

Henry shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing that could be relevant. The gypsies were at St Etheldreda’s shrine for a long time.’

‘When, exactly?’ Bartholomew pounced. ‘And why?’

‘They were kneeling at the altar. But they have as much right to be there as anyone else. Just because they are strangers, with a way of life that is different from ours, does not mean that we should persecute them.’

‘Is that all they were doing?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Praying?’

‘I said they were kneeling,’ corrected Henry. ‘I might have taken some action if they were making a noise or looking suspicious, but they were not. They were kneeling very quietly and respectfully. I saw no reason to speak to them or to ask them what they were doing.’

‘And it was about midnight?’ pressed Bartholomew, wanting to be certain.

‘I think so,’ said Henry. ‘I find it hard to judge time in the dark. I suppose it was an unusual hour for them to be in a church, but our doors are always open to those who need comfort.’

‘The gypsies have prayed at the shrine before,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about one of the times he had met Eulalia.

‘Perhaps they had been working all evening. At this time of year, there is a lot to be done for the harvest and it is not unusual for people to labour until midnight.’

‘We will find out,’ said Bartholomew. He sincerely hoped Eulalia and her brothers were not the ones responsible for the strange happenings in the Bone House. He forced himself to think rationally, trying not to allow his fondness for the woman to colour his thoughts.

However, all the victims had been killed in an unusual way, and the gypsies could have heard of such a method of execution during their travels. It also required someone with a degree of strength — which Guido, Goran and Rosel possessed in abundance. And although he had insisted to Michael that there was only a single killer, Bartholomew saw that it was possible that one did the grisly work while the others kept watch to ensure the killer was not disturbed. However, he reasoned, there had only been one of them last night in the Bone House.

He wondered whether the fact that the killer had been inside the priory precincts was evidence that would exonerate the gypsies and put the blame instead on someone at the monastery — like the missing William, or Blanche and her retinue. But the gatekeeper had been sleeping, and Bartholomew himself had passed in and out with no questions asked. Someone from the town could easily have gained access. The Bone House was not a place to which most people willingly ventured, so someone could even have slipped into it during the day and hidden there until dark.