A Summer of Discontent

‘And that would never do,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘Come, Matt. Let us revisit these inns, and see what we can do to further my career and save de Lisle from a life of ignominy.’

The day had grown hot while they had been inside the church, and it was not long before Bartholomew’s shirt began to prickle uncomfortably at his skin as he walked with Michael to the first of the taverns. He imagined that Michael must be on fire under the thick black folds of his habit. In the winter, he was occasionally jealous of the fine-quality wool of the monk’s clothes, which were able to keep out all but the most bitter of the Fenland winds, but in the summer he was grateful he was not encumbered by the heavy garments the Benedictines were obliged to wear, and relished the touch of a cooling breeze on his bare arms and billowing through his shirt. It was so hot that he seriously considered a swim in the river, but the notion that three corpses had been pulled from it tempered his enthusiasm somewhat.

‘A jug of beer would be very acceptable, do you not agree?’ asked Michael as they passed the Chantry on the Green — a chapel established for the express purpose of saying masses for the dead — and headed towards the Heyrow. ‘I need something to wash the taste of bodies from my mouth, and Ely has a reputation for fine ales. This notion of yours to continue our investigation by revisiting the taverns was a very good one.’

‘I would rather start working in the library,’ said Bartholomew wistfully, thinking about the literary delights that were so tantalisingly close.

Michael shook his head. ‘Symon told you to find him tomorrow. He will not oblige you any sooner, and it is better that you help me investigate these deaths, rather than kick your heels idly while you wait for him.’

‘We should visit the Lamb first, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The bona cervisia served there comes from the priory brewery, and is said to be the best in the city. The Bell sells mediocris cervisia — weak ale — and the White Hart is right at the bottom of the pile with debilis cervisia.’

‘Debilis cervisia?’ asked Michael, horrified. ‘That is what the priory gives its servants at midday, so that they are not too drunk to complete their duties in the afternoons. But how do you know all this? You only arrived yesterday.’

‘I was treated to a full description of the taverns and their ales last night from Henry,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘He believes that the quality of beer a person drinks reflects directly upon the state of his health.’

‘I wish you would develop ideas like that,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘They would be far more pleasant to discuss than fevers and boils and the other repellent things you seem to find so fascinating.’

‘There are flaws in his argument, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘On the one hand, drinking vast quantities of strong ale cannot be good for the brain, while drinking large amounts of weak beer will cleanse the kidneys. However, on the other, the weak debilis cervisia contains impurities, becomes cloudy more quickly than does the strong bona cervisia, and can distress the stomach.’

‘Then let us put this hypothesis to the test,’ said Michael. ‘You can imbibe debilis cervisia and I shall partake of bona cervisia, and we shall see who feels better tomorrow.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘That is no way to conduct scientific experiments, Brother! The results would be questionable, to say the least. But do you really think we will learn anything more from a second trawl of the taverns? We were not particularly successful last night.’

‘That is because our questions were undirected and general. Now we know we are looking for specific links between Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. Last night, we did not even know that we should be looking into three deaths, not one — until we met Agnes Fitzpayne at the Mermaid.’

‘Father John told us that all the victims enjoyed a drink in the Lamb before they died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So it is as good a place as any to start. How many taverns are there in Ely, Brother? I lost count last night.’

‘Seven, plus alehouses,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Alehouses tend to come and go, since they are places where the occupants simply happen to have the ingredients to brew a batch of beer, so we will leave those for now. But as for taverns, there are three big inns in the centre of the city, three on the hythes and one near the mill. The central ones tend to be frequented by merchants and the town’s more moneyed visitors, while the others are used by working folk. The Lamb is the exception, and anyone who can pay is welcome inside.’