A Summer of Discontent

‘We do not know how he came by his backache,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is a common complaint, and one that is easy to develop — so it may be wholly irrelevant to this case. But it is certainly time that we had a serious discussion with him — his duties as librarian seem to afford him considerable freedom, both in terms of time and in allowing him to wander.’

‘You mean he probably had the opportunity to kill Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde, too,’ surmised Michael. ‘We shall bear that in mind.’

Predictably, Symon was nowhere to be found. Bartholomew and Michael scoured the monastery for him, but the elusive librarian seemed to have disappeared into thin air, just like William and Mackerell. Michael kicked at the Steeple Gate in frustration.

‘I am growing tired of this!’ he shouted. ‘What is happening here? Is there a secret chamber somewhere, where people wanted for questioning can hide without fear of being discovered?’

‘If so, then we shall find it. We will search the priory, from top to bottom.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Why do you have so much energy all of a sudden? Do you know something you have not told me? Or did you sneak away last night with the lovely Eulalia after our encounter with Death?’

‘Neither. Henry gave me a tonic. Once the dizziness wears off, it really does make you feel as though you have had a good night’s sleep. I can see why people want to keep taking it, once they have started.’

‘I have heard of medicines like that,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Once the physician or apothecary is certain that his patient cannot manage without it, he increases the price. Well, you can tell Henry he can keep that sort of potion to himself. I want no fights in Cambridge because tired students can no longer afford the medicine that allows them to work.’

He stalked across the yard, and addressed a group of young monks who had been watching his display of temper with uneasy curiosity. One of them was Welles, Henry’s assistant, who tried to back away before Michael reached him. The monk was having none of that. He put on a surprising spurt of speed, and had the alarmed youngster by the cowl before he could take more than two steps.

‘Oh, no, you do not!’ he growled. ‘You will remain here and help me. First, I want to talk to Symon. He sleeps in the dormitory with you novices, so you must know where he is.’

‘But I do not,’ squeaked Welles in alarm. ‘He is a senior monk and does not tell the likes of me his business.’ With a shock, Bartholomew saw a glint of silver in the novice’s fingers, and stepped forward quickly to knock it from his hand. A long, thin masonry nail tinkled to the floor.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘Just a nail,’ bleated Welles, his eyes flicking from Bartholomew to Michael and then back again. ‘I found it in the octagon when the builders were working, and I always carry it with me. Prior Alan said we were not allowed knives as long as Julian was with us, but you have to have something sharp to use at mealtimes. I already had it in my hand when you grabbed me — I did not draw it to use as a weapon.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly, making it clear that he did not know what to believe. ‘But I am not here to discuss you. I want Symon.’

‘But I really do not know where he is,’ protested Welles. ‘I have not seen him since last night.’

‘Last night?’ pounced Michael. ‘What are you telling me? That he did not sleep in his bed, and that you have not seen him this morning?’

Welles nodded unhappily.

‘And where do you think he might be?’ said Michael. ‘Does he have a woman, or a particular friend in Ely to whom he may have gone?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Welles, not seeming particularly surprised by the question, despite the fact that Symon was a monk. ‘He does not have any friends.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘Did he say anything to you last night before he left?’

‘No,’ said Welles. ‘Only that he was going to confess his sins before it was too late.’

‘What sins?’ demanded Michael. ‘His disgraceful treatment of books? His lies?’

‘I suppose so. I do not know. Ask his confessor — Prior Alan.’

‘I will,’ said Michael grimly. He released Welles and headed towards the Prior’s House without further ado. Bartholomew considered stopping him, but could see that the monk’s temper was up and that nothing could prevent him from following the trail that had opened up before him. Michael strode across the yard, stamped up the stairs that led to the Prior’s solar and burst in without knocking. He was slightly disconcerted to see that de Lisle was there, too, but not disconcerted enough to abandon his attack.

‘Symon made a confession last night,’ he snapped, addressing Alan. ‘What did he say?’

‘I cannot tell you that,’ said Alan in surprise. ‘And you know better than to ask.’