A Summer of Discontent

Tysilia half turned. ‘But there are interesting things here,’ she objected, stooping to lift a piece of painted wood to show them. ‘Pretty things.’

‘Come out!’ de Lisle shouted. ‘At once. That rope is to stop people from entering that area, and you are not supposed to step over it.’

With a petulant pout, Tysilia started to slouch towards him. Then there was a rumble, a sharp crack and suddenly the whole of the north-west transept was full of falling stone and rising dust.

‘Tysilia!’ howled de Lisle, trying to run towards her but forced back by the veil of falling masonry and wood. Ralph darted forward to seize his Bishop’s arm and prevent him from doing anything rash, but de Lisle was not a stupid man. He could see there was little point in dashing among the large clumps of debris that crashed in front of him.

After a few moments, the roar of falling rubble ceased and the cathedral was silent. De Lisle gave another wail, and tugged away from Ralph to rush towards his daughter. Bartholomew glanced up, afraid that he would be hit, too, but there was little more left to fall. He realised they had just witnessed the largest collapse so far, although most of the debris seemed to stem from the unstable scaffolding rather than the building itself. However, gaping holes had appeared in the roof, so that the golden sunlight of late afternoon caught the swirling dust and made patterns with it. Of Tysilia there was no sign.

‘Here,’ said Ralph, pulling ineffectually at a heavy slab of oak. ‘She is under this.’

Bartholomew saw that one of the ugliest gargoyles he had ever seen had fallen virtually whole on top of the hapless Tysilia. It looked as though the artist had intended it to be a pig, but had lost interest halfway through. He turned his attention to Tysilia’s body. Most of her was unscathed: it was only her head that had been caught under the carving.

‘It has destroyed her clever mind,’ Bartholomew heard the clerk mutter facetiously to Ralph. ‘What a pity she will be giving no more of her erudite opinions on the mysteries of the universe.’

‘Crushed by a pig,’ said Ralph, who was fighting to adopt a suitably sombre expression. ‘What a way to go!’

Bartholomew crouched to examine her, although he knew she could not have survived under the tremendous weight of the gargoyle. De Lisle, however, pushed him away, kneeling next to her with tears running down his face.

‘Tysilia!’ he wept. ‘How could the saints have allowed this to happen?’

‘Perhaps one of them arranged it,’ murmured Ralph to the clerk. ‘St Etheldreda probably does not like being asked to deliver monks into the amorous clutches of women like that.’

‘Let me examine her,’ said Bartholomew, trying to ease his way past de Lisle. ‘I may be able to do something.’

‘You cannot,’ said de Lisle, stricken. ‘It is clear she is beyond any earthly help, and I do not want her poked at.’

‘But we should be sure-’ began Bartholomew.

‘No,’ whispered de Lisle, taking one of the lifeless hands in his and pressing it to his cheek. Bartholomew began to feel sorry for him. ‘Someone will pay for this.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘It was an accident. She should not have wandered where she knew she was not supposed to be.’

‘Someone caused this to fall deliberately,’ fumed de Lisle, grief giving way to anger. ‘The roof was unstable, but it was not that bad. Someone pushed something.’

Bartholomew was sure he was wrong, but there was a gallery running around the top of the transept, and so he supposed it was possible that someone had climbed up to it to launch a murderous attack on Tysilia, although he could not imagine who or why.

‘Blanche,’ snarled de Lisle, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Blanche is responsible for this, to pay me back for Glovere.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Murder is a grave sin at any time, but it would be even more so in a cathedral.’

‘Blanche and her retinue are witches and warlocks,’ ranted de Lisle. ‘I will have them burned for heresy.’

Bartholomew stepped back as the Bishop came to his feet fast, launching into a diatribe of hatred against the enemy he imagined to have killed the one person for whom he felt affection. As he moved away from the distraught Bishop, something yellow caught Bartholomew’s eye. It was a coin. He picked it up, then spotted another. Ralph saw what he was doing, and within a few moments they had amassed a veritable treasure trove, including a number of coins and a selection of jewellery. De Lisle watched with a lack of interest, more concerned with the inert form of Tysilia.

‘I know what these are,’ said Ralph, gazing down at their hoard. ‘They are items stolen during those burglaries in the town — there is the Bishop’s ring and here is his silver plate. The thief has been storing them here, in the cathedral.’

‘How ingenious,’ said the clerk. ‘Stolen property would be perfectly safe in this part of the building, because everyone is afraid that the whole thing will come down at the slightest touch.’