A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew thought he was wrong, but saw there was little point in arguing. He began to walk along the line of latrines, opening each door to see whether anyone was hiding inside. One or two people were there on perfectly legitimate business, but their outraged objections died in their throats when Michael leaned into the stalls to enquire whether they wished to make a complaint. The expression on his face made it clear that the best thing they could do would be to close the door and ignore whatever happened outside.

When they had reached the last stall, and there was no sign of Symon, Bartholomew began to think that the slippery librarian had eluded them yet again. But when he shoved the door open as far as it would go, it met with resistance, and when he pushed against it harder still, there was a small grunt of pain.

‘Come out, Symon,’ ordered Michael. ‘I do not like latrines at the best of times, and I am not impressed that my search for you has led me here yet again. I am not in a good mood, and you would be wise to pander to my wishes.’

Reluctantly, Symon sidled from the stall, looking this way and that as though he imagined he might be able to run if the questions became too awkward. Michael grabbed him firmly by the arm and dragged him away. When he reached a place where the air suited him better, Michael stopped, but did not release his prey.

‘You have a bad back,’ he began without preamble. ‘Would you care to tell us how you came by it?’

‘No,’ said Symon shortly.

‘Then I suggest you reconsider, unless you want to spend all your time in the latrines for the next year. I am an influential man, and if I make a recommendation to Prior Alan that these buildings are filthy and need to be cleaned daily, he will comply with my suggestion regarding who is the best-suited man for the task.’

Symon blanched. Even his affinity with the latrines did not stretch that far, and he evidently knew Michael was the kind of man to carry out his threat. He began to bluster. ‘I do not know how I came by my ailment. It just happened.’

‘You did not engage in a fight of any kind or attack someone?’ prompted Michael.

Symon regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Are you mad? Of course I did not fight anyone! That kind of behaviour is for novices and men who are paid by the Bishop to chase criminals. I am a librarian!’ He drew himself up to his full height and regarded Michael with disdain.

‘Then how do you account for your bad back?’ pressed Michael, unmoved. ‘These things do not “just happen”. You have to do something to aggravate them. Is that not true, Matt?’

‘When you hide in the latrines, do you sit?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding not to answer. Backaches were difficult complaints to diagnose, and came about as a result of a wide variety of causes. He had treated many patients who claimed that a sudden pain in the back had started for no apparent reason.

‘That is a highly personal question,’ said Symon, clinging to the last vestiges of his dignity. ‘But yes, I do. Sitting allows me to rest my legs, whereas standing means I tend to lean against the walls.’ He shuddered. ‘And no one should do that in there.’

‘Then your backache may be explained by your sitting too long in one position,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not much space for moving in those stalls. I recommend you either stand more often or find another hiding place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Symon stiffly. ‘I shall do that.’

‘What have you been doing for the last two days?’ demanded Michael scowling at Bartholomew for allowing the librarian to wriggle from the hook. ‘Did you not hear that we wanted a word with you?’

Symon’s expression hardened. ‘I have duties to fulfil, and cannot abandon them just because you have decided to ask me questions. For your information, I went to visit the nuns at Denny Abbey yesterday, because they are selling a copy of Matthew Paris’s Chronica Majora.’

‘You already have at least three copies of that,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why do you want another?’

Symon glowered at Bartholomew, who assumed the librarian had not known about the existence of duplicates. ‘This one was illustrated,’ he growled. ‘My readers prefer books with pictures. But suffice to say that I was engaged with priory business, and that I have only recently returned.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, clearly not believing a word. ‘What were you doing at midnight on Friday? Were you here, trying to avoid leaning on the walls, or were you out and about? Near the Bone House, for example?’

‘I certainly was not,’ said Symon indignantly. ‘And I was in my library on Friday night, cleaning up the mess your friend left with his reading. Henry may have heard me from the infirmary, so you can ask him.’

‘We will ask him,’ said Michael, releasing the librarian’s arm. ‘And if he does not support your claim, we will be back to talk to you again. Do not think that you will evade me: I know this priory as well as you do, and there is nowhere you can go that I will not find you.’