A Summer of Discontent

Moments later, he looked up to see Guido approaching, walking briskly as though he had business to attend. He wore his yellow hat, despite the fact that the evening was warm and that it must be uncomfortably hot. Straightening quickly, Bartholomew intercepted him and wished him goodnight. Guido glared at him.

‘For some who never work, maybe,’ he said, shoving past the physician to continue walking down the hill towards the Quay. ‘Some of us are too busy to waste time looking at whether an evening is pretty.’

‘Why are you busy?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you plan to leave tonight after all?’

Guido rounded on him suddenly, seizing a handful of his shirt and almost lifting him off his feet. ‘Stay away from my sister!’

Releasing Bartholomew with such abruptness that the physician stumbled, the scowling gypsy king went on his way. Bartholomew watched him go thoughtfully. The brief encounter had told him all he had wanted to learn from the man: Guido’s hat was not as pristine as it had been. It was slightly muddy, and a peculiar bunching at one side indicated that a thread had been caught on something sharp and been pulled out. He wondered whether the local sheriff would consider it evidence enough to charge Guido with William’s murder.

Bartholomew felt a surge of disappointment with the gypsy clan. It was easy to blame crimes and mishaps on strangers. He did not like Guido, but he had hoped the man’s claims of innocence were genuine, and that he would not prove the bigoted accusations of narrow-minded townsfolk correct. The physician sighed, and wondered what to do. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more to do with the city’s turmoils, but on the other, he suspected that Guido would not be an easy man to apprehend once he had left Ely, despite Michael’s claims to the contrary. The monk would want to question Guido about William’s death now that there was the evidence of the gold thread to consider.

He stared after the gypsy, noting again that the man was not walking for the pleasure of exercise, but striding along purposefully. What had he meant when he said he was busy? Was he planning his departure that night, when he would disappear into the maze of ditches and dykes and islets with his people, never to be seen in the area again? After a few moments of hesitation, Bartholomew decided on a course of action: he would follow Guido to see where he went, and then he would drag Cynric from his revels if it appeared that the gypsy king intended to evade justice.

Taking a deep breath, not entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing, the physician followed Guido at a discreet distance, edging in and out of doorways to avoid being spotted — not that it was necessary, for Guido never once looked behind him.

He followed Guido to the Mermaid Inn on the Quay, then hesitated outside the door. Now what? He had done what he had set out to do, and knew Guido’s intended destination. But the speed of the man’s walk suggested that he had pressing business inside, and now Bartholomew decided he wanted to know what. He could hardly enter the inn and continue to observe Guido without being seen, and he did not want to linger outside waiting for him to come out — there were not many places to hide and he was sure his loitering would be noticed and reported to the occupants of the tavern.

Wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, he ducked down a narrow passageway that led to the rear of the premises, uncertain of his plan, but determined to do something. He found himself in a small yard that had weeds growing between the cobbles and a generally derelict air about it, as though it was seldom used. In one corner was a large pile of sacks. Bartholomew had seen sacks like them once before: stacked inside the priory’s granary.

He glanced around him, looking for a window or a back door through which he might enter unobtrusively. He saw a small window, and peered through it. It led to a pantry. Like the yard, it appeared to enjoy little regular use, and was piled high with crates and barrels, but none of them looked as if they had been moved recently. Bartholomew pushed open the shutter and eased himself inside, swearing under his breath when a sharp rip told him that he had caught his last good shirt on a nail that protruded from the neglected latch.

He stood on the tiled floor and listened, trying to detect the rumble of voices from the tavern’s main room. But the walls were sturdy and thick, and Bartholomew could hear nothing, so he tiptoed across the floor and put his ear to the door. Again, there was nothing. He pulled open the door a little, but the silence remained absolute.