A Summer of Discontent

‘So, now we are looking for someone with a bruised back, who is wearing finest quality Benedictine robes and has a lot of money to spare,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should not be too difficult to track down.’

Michael ignored him, and nodded instead to the dead man’s hands. ‘His nails are broken, and there are cuts on his arms. I assume the killer will also have scratches on him.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are injuries caused while William tried to defend himself; there is nothing to indicate that he managed to inflict any harm on his assailant. The cuts show where he fended off a knife or another blade of some kind, and the broken fingernails could have been caused by his clawing at anything in his desperation to escape, even the ground.’

‘But then his nails would be full of mud. And they are not.’

‘He has also been in the river for an undetermined amount of time, and it may have been washed away.’

‘His death was definitely a result of this blow to his head? There are no other fatal injuries? He did not drown?’

‘I cannot really tell,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If I lean hard against his chest, some bubbles seep from his mouth, suggesting he breathed water into his lungs, but it is irrelevant anyway. What is important is that we know he fought against his attacker, and that at some point he was hit on the head — or perhaps he fell. He probably drowned while he was unconscious — his death was a result of the tussle, regardless.’

‘So, now we have six corpses to avenge,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And Mackerell is still missing. Perhaps he is the killer.’

‘William was not.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael tiredly, trying to keep an open mind. ‘It is possible that someone else discovered the identity of the murderer and took justice into his own hands. What we have here may be an execution, not a murder.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘The man we wrestled with in the Bone House last night was definitely our culprit, because of the way he tried to cut my neck. And, although I cannot be precise about the exact time that William has been dead, I can assure you it was not him we fought — unless his corpse was possessed by a water-spirit.’

‘Please!’ said Michael with a shudder, glancing around him uneasily. ‘This is no place to make that kind of jest.’

‘I was under the impression that you dismissed such stories as nonsense,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s reaction. ‘You have always been scornful of local superstitions and customs.’

‘So I am, when in a busy town or the cathedral-priory,’ said Michael. ‘But things are different out here, among all this water and with that vast sky hanging above us. There are eerie rustles and strange sounds. I always feel I am entering a different world when I venture into the Fens.’

‘We had better go home, then,’ said Bartholomew, looking towards the path that would take them back to Ely. ‘We should not linger here longer than necessary, when we have so much to do.’

‘William will have to stay here. He is too heavy for us to carry without a stretcher and I do not feel like humping corpses all over the countryside, anyway.’

‘We can cover him with reeds,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and hope he does not attract the attention of any wild animals. He has been all right so far, so a few more hours should not make a difference.’

‘I will say a prayer and then we will be off,’ said Michael, muttering something brief, then leaning down to touch William’s forehead, mouth and chest. ‘There, I am done.’

‘I am sure that will make all the difference,’ said Bartholomew, hoping for William’s sake that his other brethren were prepared to take a little more time over his immortal soul.

Michael took no notice, and put one hand on William’s chest as he heaved himself to his feet. He withdrew his fingers quickly, then knelt again and peered closely at the front of William’s habit. ‘That is odd.’

Bartholomew crouched next to him, and looked at the cross that William still wore around his neck. His killer had evidently decided it was not worth stealing, because the metal was some cheap alloy, not the gold or silver usually favoured by high-ranking Benedictines. But it was not the cross itself that had attracted Michael’s attention — it was something that had caught on one of its rough edges. Bartholomew took a pair of tweezers from his medicine bag and picked it up.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael. ‘It looks like a strand of gold thread — not that gold-coloured thread you can buy in the market here, but the real stuff that courtiers use.’

‘Not only courtiers,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Guido and his unusual hat.