A Summer of Discontent

‘He is missing,’ said Michael angrily. ‘He was last seen going to confession, and was apparently feeling guilty about his sins. That does not sound like the Symon I know, who is of the opinion that he does not have any. So, I conclude that something happened to make him see the error of his ways, and I need to know what he told you.’

‘I am bound by the seal of confession,’ said Alan calmly. ‘As well you know. But, as it happens, there is nothing for me to tell. He may well have intended to come to see me last night, but he would not have been able to do so. I was out.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael immediately, forgetting himself in his desire for answers.

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Alan, angry at the impertinence of the question. ‘But I can assure you that it is irrelevant to your investigation. You asked about Symon’s confession, and I am telling you that he did not make one to me.’

‘So who else might he have seen, then?’ pressed Michael.

‘William, Robert and Thomas were also permitted to hear the monks’ confessions, but none of them were available, for obvious reasons. Symon would have had to wait for me.’

‘Well, if he does come, send for me immediately,’ instructed Michael. ‘It is imperative that I speak to him as soon as possible.’

‘Am I to understand by your frustration and bad temper that this investigation is not proceeding as you would like?’ asked de Lisle mildly. ‘I hear that you almost had this killer last night, and I am disappointed by your failure.’

‘So am I,’ said Michael tartly.

De Lisle sighed, and then stood, wincing as he did so and pressing both hands to his lower spine. ‘It has been several days since I charged you to exonerate me from the crimes of which I have been accused. Not only have you failed to do that, but there are now five corpses fresh in the ground, and at least two people missing — three, if you count Symon. I hope you will do better today.’

‘Do you have an aching back?’ asked Michael coolly, goaded into incaution by the Bishop’s admonition. ‘Matt has a way with aching backs. Perhaps you should let him examine it, and see what he can do for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ said de Lisle shortly. ‘I have been plagued by backache for years, and physicians do nothing but make it worse. I would rather treat it myself with a poultice of ground snails and arsenic. That usually works.’

‘I imagine it numbs the area,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But while it will ease the pain in the short term, you should not use it for long. It can result in slow poisoning.’

‘That is what Henry said,’ grumbled de Lisle. ‘But it is only an excuse for him to get his hands on me and demand a high fee for a consultation, a horoscope and expensive medicines that will do me no good at all.’

‘What is wrong with your back, exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not a physician, so I do not know,’ snapped de Lisle, impatient with the discussion. ‘But I spent a lot of time sitting yesterday, and I suppose that must have aggravated it. I shall have to walk today, or ride.’

‘Ride,’ recommended Michael sulkily. ‘Walking is for peasants.’

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael tiredly, as he started to walk towards the river with Bartholomew a few moments later, in the hope of discovering the scene of the murders. ‘Symon is missing, having apparently been about to confess his sins to Alan. That is suspicious in itself.’

‘Something must have happened to make him want to see a confessor “before it was too late” to quote Welles,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Symon is arrogant, and not the kind of man to admit he has faults, unless something happened to make him believe otherwise.’

‘What has he been doing and where is he now? His pains must be fairly serious, if he emerged from his hiding place to seek Henry’s help.’

‘Meanwhile, we also have de Lisle with a bad back that he declines to allow me to inspect.’

‘And what was Alan doing yesterday that he refuses to tell us about? Playing in the Bone House with blood and soil? Lord, Matt! We have been here for seven days now, and the only reason my list of suspects has decreased is because some of them are dead. Give me that wine you have in your bag. I need a drink!’

‘That is for medical emergencies,’ said Bartholomew, moving away as the monk lunged. ‘It is not for you to drink whenever you feel like it.’

It was a glorious day, with larks flinging themselves up from the grassy fields and flying high into the sky, their twittering songs sweet and piercing. It was a shame such a day had to be blighted by death and suspicion. Bartholomew and Michael walked in silence, thinking about the murders, and how they had changed the priory and the town within the course of a few days.