A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew saw the novices smiling among themselves, apparently delighted to see the fat sub-prior opposed so energetically. It seemed that Thomas was not a popular man with the youngsters.

‘I shall look into Haywarde’s case,’ said Alan wearily; it was not the first time he had acted as peacemaker between his senior monks. ‘However, I took it upon myself to visit the family the day he died, and the widow assured me that she would fare better without him. I confess I was shocked, but she told me that the funds spent on Haywarde’s ale would pay for the children’s bread. She seemed rather delighted by her change of fortune.’

‘She would,’ said Henry. ‘Haywarde cannot have been an easy man to live with.’

‘A brute,’ agreed Thomas wholeheartedly, gnawing the remnants of cheese from a rind. ‘And I, for one, am glad he is dead. He will not be mourned in the town for a moment.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, astonished to hear such sentiments from a monk.

‘Our visiting physician should be about his business,’ said Robert, watching his reaction critically and showing that he thought it high time the outspoken interloper was gone.

‘True,’ said Thomas. ‘There are three bodies awaiting his attention, after all.’

‘Three,’ mused William thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Father John is right to be concerned.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Robert, regarding the hosteller with open hatred. ‘I have already pointed out that it is not unusual for men to die.’

‘To die, no,’ said William smoothly. ‘But it is unusual for three to drown within such a short time. You should beware, Robert, because I have a hunch that it will only be a matter of time before a monk is found face-down in the river.’

‘That was unpleasant,’ said Bartholomew, as he followed Michael out of the refectory towards the Steeple Gate, where he could see the priest still waiting. ‘Was William threatening Robert?’

‘Lord knows,’ sighed Michael. ‘It would not surprise me. Robert and William have loathed each other for as long as I can remember.’

‘Neither of them are especially appealing characters,’ remarked Bartholomew, trying to determine whether he was more repelled by the superior, unreadable William or the vicious-tongued Robert. And the sub-prior was not much better, either. ‘I cannot say that I am impressed with your Benedictine brethren, Michael.’

‘Not those particular ones. But Henry is a kindly soul, and so is Alan.’

‘I am not so sure about Alan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He seems gentle and good, but he permits this silly feud with Father John, and he does nothing to curb the excesses of his monks. Robert, William and Thomas would benefit if he did not allow them so much freedom.’

‘Alan really is a good man, but thwarted ambition has made him careless.’

‘You mean because he should have been Bishop and the Pope selected de Lisle instead?’

Michael rummaged in his scrip and presented Bartholomew with the food he had taken. ‘You should not poke around with corpses on an empty stomach, Matt. I should have grabbed you some ham, too, but that greedy Thomas wolfed most of it before I could act.’

Bartholomew took the offering, a little warily: Michael was not a man who readily parted with food, and the physician wondered whether there was something wrong with it. ‘Are you not hungry?’

‘Breakfast is always a tawdry affair on Mondays,’ said Michael carelessly. He is probably full, thought Bartholomew. ‘But I shall survive until we find a tavern, and you need sustenance, since you are about to meddle in de Lisle’s affairs on my behalf. How did you persuade the priest to let you examine the others?’

‘He asked me. But these other two deaths put a different complexion on matters, do you not think? They mean that unless de Lisle also murdered them, then he is unlikely to have killed Glovere.’

Michael gave a grim smile. ‘You are underestimating de Lisle, Matt. He is quite capable of deducing that the presence of two other corpses might exonerate him from the murder of the first. And you are assuming that these corpses are all related in some way. Robert is right: the waters in the Fens can be dangerous, and it is not unusual for men to die while fishing or fowling or cutting reeds.’

‘I suppose there is only one way to find out,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, watching with heavy resignation as Father John came to lead them to the corpses.

The two bodies lay in St Mary’s Church, an attractive building with a spire, which overlooked the village green. John explained that the monks refused to allow corpses in the cathedral while they awaited burial, and so the parishioners of Holy Cross were obliged to pay St Mary’s to store them until a requiem mass could be arranged. The priest of St Mary’s was well satisfied with the arrangement, and John informed Bartholomew and Michael that the twopence per day for each body went directly into the man’s own purse.