A Summer of Discontent

So, what did all this tell him? He rubbed a hand through his hair in exasperation when he realised that it told him nothing at all, and that his list of suspects was just as long as ever. The only people who were definitely innocent were the men who had already died. And there was nothing to say whether Eulalia and her clan were innocent or guilty, although Bartholomew thought it odd that they should choose midnight to pray to St Etheldreda.

‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.

‘The Bishop was there, too, saying a mass for Thomas,’ said Henry after a moment.

‘At midnight?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that not an odd time for masses?’

Henry shrugged noncommittally. ‘I am sure Thomas is grateful for all the masses he can get — regardless of the time they are said.’ Bartholomew imagined that was true. ‘But let us talk of medical matters. What do you prescribe for backache?’

‘Backache?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Michael’s blow with the spade the night before. He gazed at the physician. But Henry could not be the killer! He had been eliminated as a suspect because he drooled when he slept.

‘I have had two cases already this morning, would you believe,’ Henry continued with a smile. ‘It is not unusual to see such ailments: those who labour in their fields often have aching bones at the end of the day, while poring over scripts in the chapter house or the library sometimes gives rise to discomfort.’

‘Who came to see you today?’ demanded Bartholomew eagerly.

Henry was surprised at his interest. ‘One was Bishop de Lisle, although I cannot imagine that he was harvesting crops or meditating on sacred scripts. And the other was Symon, who said he had been working in the library all yesterday.’

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was there in the afternoon, and I was alone.’

‘He is rather given to exaggeration.’

‘That is a polite way of putting it. He is a liar.’

Henry would not be drawn into agreeing outright. ‘He is cautious with the truth. Perhaps he imagines that if he uses it too often, he will run out.’

‘I think he has run out already,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we should have a word with him. Maybe this mess will not be so difficult to resolve after all.’

‘What has Symon’s backache to do with finding your killer?’

‘Michael struck the murderer hard as he was about to make an end of me. The man will now be nursing a bruised spine.’

At that moment the door opened, and Julian arrived to begin his daily duties. He nodded a greeting to Bartholomew and Henry, before placing both hands over the small of his back.

‘Lord!’ he muttered. ‘Drying herbs is better than being assigned to mucking out the pigs or digging turnips, but leaning over them makes my back horribly sore!’

Chapter 10

Julian was outraged when Bartholomew demanded to inspect his back in the infirmary, and steadfastly refused to allow him, even when Henry added his voice to the argument. Bartholomew was on the verge of marching him directly to Michael for interrogation when the young monk relented, hauling up his habit to reveal silken hose and a fine linen undervest that Bartholomew suspected were well outside the proscribed regulations for novices. He inspected the young man’s skin, but could see no abrasion, and was not sure whether a slight discoloration above the belt-line was bruising, or simply where Julian had been less than assiduous with his washing.

The evidence was inconclusive. Bartholomew reasoned that Michael’s blow would not necessarily have caused a visible bruise, although it might still be painful. He was left not knowing whether Julian’s reluctance to be examined stemmed from the fact that he did not want to be caught wearing clothes he ought not to have owned, whether he was merely exercising his right not to be manhandled by any physician who happened to demand to do so, or whether he had not known whether the spade had left a mark and did not want anyone else to find out either.

‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew in frustration, as Julian marched away with a gait that was half-swagger and half-limp.

‘It looks as though you will have to speak to Bishop de Lisle and Symon,’ said Henry, watching Julian go. ‘I do not envy you that task. De Lisle is not the kind of man who appreciates being a suspect for murder, and neither will Symon be.’

Bartholomew sat on the edge of Henry’s workbench, not knowing what to do next. Henry was right that de Lisle would not prove an easy man to interview, while the unhelpful Symon would object to being asked questions on principle. Meanwhile, what was Bartholomew to think about the gypsies being in the cathedral at an hour when most honest people were in bed? Had they been helping the killer, waiting for him to complete whatever grisly business he carried out in the Bone House?

‘I am mixing a compound of camomile and borage for Bishop Northburgh’s wrinkles,’ said Henry, pointing to piles of freshly picked leaves on his table, along with a mound of garlic. ‘Both are known to be good for the skin.’