A Summer of Discontent

‘You do,’ agreed Alan. ‘And your success in solving the most perplexing of crimes is known in Ely, as well as in Cambridge. But that worries me, too. De Lisle knows you are clever and he knows you are likely to uncover the truth.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, draining his cup a second time. ‘I do not understand your point.’

‘I mean that if de Lisle knows you are likely to reveal him as a murderer — if he is guilty — then why did he send for you? Why not appoint a lesser investigator instead — one of his own creatures?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Because he is innocent, and he wants me to prove it?’

Alan remained uneasy. ‘Perhaps. But the murder of this servant is not the only thing that has happened to the Bishop recently. There was a burglary, too.’

‘He was a victim,’ Michael pointed out. ‘No one has suggested he is the thief!’

Alan inclined his head in acknowledgement, although the anxious expression did not fade from his eyes. He was about to continue, when there was another knock, and William entered a third time.

‘I thought you should know, Father Prior, that a messenger has just arrived. He informs me that Lady Blanche is a short distance from Ely, and will be here within the hour. She says she wants to ensure that the murder of her steward is investigated in a proper and thorough manner.’ He shot Michael an unpleasant glance, as though he thought the matter well beyond Michael’s capabilities.

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael. ‘This case will be difficult enough to solve without the likes of that woman demanding to know my every move and trying to pervert the course of justice.’

While Alan de Walsingham and William hastened to make ready for the great lady’s arrival, Bartholomew and Michael were left to their own devices. The physician wanted to go to the library, to begin his reading, but it seemed that the Prior and hosteller were not the only ones engaged in the preparations for Lady Blanche: Brother Symon, who was in charge of the books, was also unavailable, and sent a message to Bartholomew informing him that he would have to wait until the following day.

‘But I only need him to unlock the door,’ Bartholomew objected to the messenger, a cheerful novice with freckles, whom Michael introduced as John de Bukton. ‘I do not require him to fetch books or carry them to a table. I can do that myself.’

Bukton looked apologetic. ‘Symon does not like people reading his books. He would rather see them on the shelves, and considers their removal for education anathema.’

‘That is not a good characteristic in a librarian,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ignoring Michael’s snigger of amusement. ‘Books were written to be read.’

‘That is not what Symon believes,’ said Bukton with a grin. ‘And there is another thing: he does not know what books we own anyway. He classifies them according to their size, so that they look nice on his shelves, but if you were to ask him for a specific volume, he could not tell you where it was unless you also told him how big it was.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I was looking forward to a few quiet days among books. Now I learn that the librarian is a man who would rather his collection was never used, and that my friend is to investigate a murder for which his Bishop stands accused. What kind of place is this?’

Bukton was offended by the criticism. ‘You have just caught us on a bad day.’

‘I should say!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the young man speed away as he went to help his elders ready the Outer Hostry for Lady Blanche and her followers. He turned to Michael. ‘No wonder you like Cambridge, Brother. It is a haven of peace compared to this.’

‘As he said, you are not seeing us at our best,’ replied Michael, also unwilling to see his priory regarded in an unfavourable light. ‘But I can take you to the infirmary, where you can settle yourself for your stay, and then we can go to view the body of the man whom my Bishop murdered.’

‘Is accused of murdering,’ corrected Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Brother. One slip like that in front of the wrong people might see de Lisle condemned.’

Michael said nothing, and Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, alarmed that Michael, like so many others, had accepted as fact the Bishop’s guilt. The monk’s task, therefore, would not be to prove de Lisle’s innocence, but to ensure that he escaped the charges. The physician felt a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach, aware that his friend was about to begin something that could lead him on to dangerous ground. Michael was a clever man, and his inventively cunning mind often surprised Bartholomew, but, nevertheless, the physician wished neither of them had come to Ely in the first place.

‘We have been here for an hour, and we are already embroiled in something sinister,’ he grumbled, following Michael along the well-kept path that led from the Prior’s House in the direction of the infirmary.