A Summer of Discontent

Henry nodded. ‘I have advised him to reduce the amount, but he will not listen. He has been dosing Stretton with it, too. He has his own supply, but I do not want him to fix greedy eyes on my little stash as well. I am obliged to hide it, as you can see.’

‘No wonder their investigations have been so lax,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding a good deal about the behaviour of the visiting clerics. ‘It explains why they were so mild tempered yesterday, when they spoke to Michael in the refectory. They are both drugged to stupidity.’

‘Hardly that,’ said Henry, smiling at the exaggeration. ‘But I imagine it accounts for Northburgh’s swings of mood between bonhomie and aggressive rudeness.’

‘It probably works well for shocks,’ predicted Bartholomew, a little thickly. ‘I usually carry wine for that, although Michael finished mine last night after our encounter with the killer in the Bone House. He has developed an annoying partiality for my medicinal claret.’

Henry laughed. ‘He is a large man with large appetites. Let him have his brew, if it makes him happy. But speaking of wine, I must refill your wineskin. I used what you gave me for Ynys’s medicine, and you were right: good stuff is more soothing than a raw brew.’ He reached for a large stone jug that stood in the corner.

‘Did someone mention wine?’ came a querulous voice from the infirmary hall. It was Roger.

Henry smiled at Bartholomew, as he poured a measure of deep red claret into the physician’s battered wineskin. ‘It is miraculous how words like “wine” and “dinner” seem to cure deafness. The others are the same. See how they are looking more lively now that they think they may be in for a cup of something special? But here is your flask. You must promise that you will not attempt to tackle this killer singlehanded again: I do not want Michael to drink all the priory’s best sack after the shocks of repeated encounters with murderers in the Bone House.’

Bartholomew took the container. The contents smelled strong and fruity, and he felt like taking a sip there and then. But he decided he had better not drink wine with the hemp he had taken, or he would be no good to Michael or anyone else. He put it in his bag, fumbling with the buckles and ties, and noting, but not really caring, that it took longer than usual to complete this minor task.

When he had finished, Henry was standing at his workbench with a chopping knife in his hands and a large pile of garlic in front of him. ‘I cannot trust Julian to do this,’ he said, looking down at his handiwork. ‘He is incapable of cutting it to my satisfaction. Garlic should be chopped so fine that the pieces are all but invisible.’

‘I always use a pestle and mortar,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that chopping garlic was for cooks, not physicians. ‘It is much quicker. But I must go. We have a lot to do today.’

He stumbled as he misread the height of the threshold, and Henry laughed softly. ‘That floating sensation will pass in a few moments, and then you will feel the beneficial effects of the tonic. Remind me to give you some before you leave for Cambridge. It is excellent for soothing ragged tempers, and I recall hearing that there are one or two Fellows of Michaelhouse who would be better company if they were calmer.’

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward. ‘That is certainly true.’

When Bartholomew reported to Michael that there had been a spate of complaints for backache that morning, the monk immediately decided they should speak to the sufferers, starting with Symon. He gave Bartholomew a rueful smile as they left the refectory together.

‘I think it would be better to leave the Bishop until we have no other leads to follow. I am sure neither of us wants to travel along that line of enquiry except as a last resort.’

‘Perhaps not even then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is enough evidence to imply that de Lisle had some kind of hand in Glovere’s death, and if we find he also has a bruised back, then the case is more or less closed.’

‘But I do not think the man with whom we fought last night was de Lisle,’ said Michael. ‘It did not feel like de Lisle, and I do not think he was tall enough.’

‘That is wishful thinking,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I recall thinking that it could have been just about anyone — it was too dark to see, and I do not think I ever saw him standing straight anyway. He was either climbing the ladder or grubbing about on the floor with us.’

‘I do not like the way Symon’s name keeps cropping up,’ said Michael thoughtfully, deftly ending a discussion that made him uncomfortable. ‘He was one of the people in the infirmary when Thomas died, by his own admission he was in the vineyard with Robert, and now he is claiming a sudden and suspicious back injury.’