A Summer of Discontent

‘It does not cost much to dig a hole.’ Bartholomew was still disgusted. ‘It would have been better to bury him immediately, rather than leave him lying around until Blanche deigns to arrive. Supposing she refuses to pay? Then what happens?’

Michael waved a dismissive hand, uninterested in the logistics of burial. He felt it was fortunate that Glovere was still above ground, given the circumstances, and was hopeful that Bartholomew would be able to produce a verdict of death by drowning while drunk, and thus put an end to Blanche’s machinations. He thought about what he had learned from talking to his brethren that afternoon.

‘According to Alan, Glovere was universally disliked because he was a gossip. When he and de Lisle had that very public argument two weeks ago, it did wonders for de Lisle’s popularity — everyone was delighted to see Glovere on the receiving end of some eloquently vicious insults. Now it seems that very same disagreement is leading people to believe de Lisle guilty of murder.’

‘It is not just the public row, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Even you think he may have done it, and you were not even a witness to this squabble.’

‘Whatever,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But suffice to say that Glovere was loathed by all, and no one is prepared to pay a few pennies for a hole for his corpse.’

‘Because he told tales?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I can see that would make him unpopular, but I cannot see that it would lead to such heartlessness regarding his mortal remains.’

‘Apparently he was a liar, too, whose uncontrolled tongue caused a lot of unnecessary heartache. Alan told me that his malicious stories resulted in a young woman committing suicide last winter.’

‘How?’

‘He started rumours that she was with child, which led her intended husband to marry someone else. It transpired that Glovere’s accusations were wholly unfounded, and were based on the fact that he had seen the girl sewing clothes for a baby. The clothes were for her sister’s child.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘But if Glovere was a known liar, why did this husband-to-be believe him in the first place?’

‘Because he was a foolish man with too much pride and too little trust. It was one of those silly affairs that would have righted itself, given time. Unfortunately, the intended groom acted immediately, and Glovere’s spite thus brought about a tragedy. But the city has not forgotten the story and Glovere remains friendless and graveless.’

‘And the body is in a church somewhere?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing he had not agreed to help Michael after all. The last ten days had been gloriously hot, and a corpse of that age was not going to be pleasant company.

‘Lord, no!’ said Michael. ‘No sane parish priest would agree to hosting a corpse for that length of time in the summer. Glovere resides in the Bone House.’

‘What is a bone house?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. ‘It sounds horrible.’

Michael started to explain. ‘When the foundations of the Lady Chapel and the Church of the Holy Cross were laid, we kept unearthing bones. The whole area to the north of the cathedral — where these buildings were being raised — is the lay cemetery, you see.’

‘I hope plague victims were not buried there,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘I do not think it will be safe to unearth those bodies for a long time yet.’

‘Most were found thirty years ago. But there were so many remains that it was decided a bone house should be erected to store them until they could be reburied.’

‘Why not inter them straight away? Why keep them above ground at all?’

‘Because we did not want to lay them to rest only to dig them up later when more foundations were needed. It is better to stack them safely, then bury them with due ceremony when we are sure they will not be disturbed again. Look — there it is.’

Michael pointed to a two-storeyed lean-to building near the north wall of the priory, between the Steeple Gate and the sacristy. It was sturdily built, but was little more than a long house with one or two very small windows and a thick, heavy door. It was evidently anticipated that the occupants would not require much in the way of daylight, because the shutters had been painted firmly closed, giving the whole building a forlorn, secretive appearance that did not encourage visitors. For some peculiar reason, the Bone House had also been provided with a chimney, although Bartholomew could not see why. He could not imagine anyone — living, at least — tarrying inside for long enough to warrant the lighting of a fire.

‘It is obvious it was built for laymen, and not monks,’ said Bartholomew, critically eyeing its crude lines and unprepossessing appearance. ‘It is hardly the grandest edifice in the area.’

‘It is a storeroom, Matt,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is not intended to be a final resting place.’