A Summer of Discontent

Michael turned to the man who stood next to him, and began a conversation about Glovere and the woman who had killed herself. The man only reiterated what they already knew — that young Alice had committed suicide when Glovere’s tales had caused her betrothed to marry someone else. Alice had been pretty, sweet-tempered and likeable, and it seemed that Glovere was generally regarded as the Devil incarnate.

Bartholomew took a deep draught of the rich ale. It was stronger than anything available in Cambridge, and he felt his head swimming. He had been tired and thirsty, and had drunk too much too quickly when he and Michael had started their round of the taverns. He was well on the way to becoming intoxicated. Someone bumped into him, and a good part of the jug spilled down the front of his tabard. The culprit regarded the mess in horror, and then released a chain of impressive oaths.

‘I am sorry,’ she mumbled eventually, seeing that Bartholomew was regarding her warily. ‘Nothing has gone right today, and now I drown a scholar in his own ale. Allow me to buy you more — although I can ill afford it. Haywarde’s suicide will cost me a pretty penny.’

‘I do not need any more ale,’ said Bartholomew, trying to make sense of her seemingly random statements. ‘Haywarde?’

‘My sister’s husband,’ explained the woman. ‘Damn the man for his selfishness!’

‘Selfishness for committing suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the conversation’s peculiar twists and turns. The ale slopping around inside him did not help.

The woman gave a tired grin. She was a large lady, who wore a set of skirts around her middle that contained enough material to clothe half the town. Her face was sunburned and homely, and she possessed a set of large, evenly spaced beige teeth. She was as tall as any of the men in the tavern, and a good deal wider than most, and Bartholomew supposed it was this that allowed her to thrust her way into a domain usually frequented by males.

‘Forgive me. You are a stranger, and so cannot know what is happening in our town. My name is Agnes Fitzpayne, and my sister had the misfortune to be married to that good-for-nothing lout Haywarde, may God rot his poxy soul! His death will cost me a fortune.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, who did not.

‘It is not as if I even liked him,’ continued Agnes bitterly. ‘He was a bully, and my sister and their children are glad to see him gone.’

‘I heard a man had killed himself yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, trying to clear his wits. ‘Leycestre said it was because it is difficult for folk to feed their families these days. If that is why Haywarde died, then his suicide will not help them either.’

‘If Haywarde committed suicide, then it was not for selfless reasons,’ said Agnes harshly. ‘He was far too fond of himself to think of others. Leycestre wants to see everything in terms of the struggle between rich and poor. But then perhaps he was thinking of Chaloner. He committed suicide, too.’

‘Chaloner? Who is he?’

‘He drowned five or six days ago.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘So there have been three deaths in Ely over the past ten days? I thought it was just Glovere and this Haywarde.’

‘Then you thought wrong. The river has claimed three souls recently. But I cannot see Chaloner killing himself to benefit others, either. He was no better than Haywarde in that respect.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair and wishing he had never started the discussion. ‘What had he done?’

‘He married where he should not have done,’ said Agnes mysteriously. ‘And he caused a sweet angel to die of a broken heart.’

‘Chaloner was the intended husband of Alice — about whom Glovere told lies?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.

Agnes regarded him in surprise. ‘I see you already know our local stories. Chaloner broke Alice’s heart by wedding another woman, and it brought about her death. People would not have taken against Chaloner so, if he had been even a little remorseful. But he was not. Like Haywarde, he will not be missed.’

‘Except by Chaloner’s wife,’ said Bartholomew.

‘She died in childbirth a few weeks ago,’ said Agnes with grim satisfaction. ‘It was God’s judgement on her for taking the man promised to another.’

‘How did Chaloner die?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the remains of his drink.

‘He was found floating face-down in the river, opposite the Monks’ Hythe. You can see it from here, if you look through the window.’

‘And Haywarde?’

‘The same. But, as I said, his wife and children will be glad to be rid of him. He did no work, and drank away any pennies they earned. And he was violent to them.’

‘He sounds unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew absently, thinking that it had been a long day, and it was time he was in his bed. He hoped Henry would not insist on a lengthy medical discourse before he went to sleep.

‘No one liked him,’ said Agnes fervently. ‘He was an animal!’

‘It seems that Ely is inhabited by quite a number of nasty people,’ remarked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Glovere was not much liked, either.’