A Summer of Discontent

Barbour selected a knife from the wall, spat on it to remove any residual hairs from the last haircut it had given, scraped it across the hearth a few times to sharpen it, and then began to carve thick chunks of the mutton on to a wooden platter. Michael watched critically, ready to step in and complain if he felt Barbour was being niggardly. The landlord, however, showed no signs of finishing, and the pile of meat grew larger and larger.

‘Chaloner and Haywarde were my customers,’ he replied. ‘In fact, Haywarde liked to sit in the exact spot that you are in, Brother. Glovere came here from time to time, too. It is hard to lose three men who liked their ale within a few days — hard for my business, that is.’

‘I am sure it is,’ said Michael. ‘Were they friends, then, these three men?’

Barbour shook his head, sawing vigorously as his blade encountered bone. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, wondering whether a man who wielded knives with such vicious efficiency should also be included on their ever-growing list of suspects. So far, the only thing that connected the three men was that they had all enjoyed their ale in the tavern run by Barbour.

‘Those three had no friends,’ the landlord declared. ‘They were not likeable, and they were certainly not the types to tolerate each other. Haywarde owed me money; I doubt I will see that again. Agnes Fitzpayne would reimburse me if I asked, but I do not see why she should pay for her brother-in-law’s pleasures.’

‘That is an unusual attitude for a landlord to take,’ observed Michael. ‘Usually, they will take what they are owed from anyone.’

‘Agnes still comes to me to be bled,’ confided Barbour. ‘It is said that Brother Henry washes his knives before he bleeds people, so many of my customers have shifted their allegiance. And somehow, he also avoids having the blood spray over people’s clothes. I am not sure how he does it, but I do not like to ask for his professional secrets.’

‘Ask,’ recommended Bartholomew immediately. ‘I am sure he will tell you, and it would be better for your patients. And you should consider cleaning your knives, too.’

‘I do clean them,’ said Barbour indignantly. ‘I always spit on them and give them a good wipe on my apron first — although a bit of lamb grease in a cut never did anyone any harm — but Henry uses hot water and washes his blades with a cloth.’

‘What can you tell us about Glovere?’ asked Michael hastily, seeing that Bartholomew was ready to give the surgeon a lecture on the benefits of clean implements.

‘He whined about Lady Blanche and his fellow servants, and he complained bitterly about the Bishop of Ely. Mind you, I do not blame him for that.’

‘You do not, do you?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why, pray, is that?’

‘The Bishop is not a nice man,’ replied Barbour, caring nothing for the warning in Michael’s voice. ‘He probably ordered Glovere killed, just as Lady Blanche claims.’

‘And why do you think she is right?’ asked Michael, eyes glistening as Barbour laid the loaded platter in front of him. The landlord reached up to a shelf above the hearth and presented them with a bottle of pickled mint, then went to draw two pots of frothing brown ale. The fact that he was on the other side of the room did not prevent him from answering Michael’s question.

‘The Bishop and Blanche are always fighting with each other,’ he yelled. ‘Their servants join in, and it is likely that the Bishop ordered one of his henchmen to do away with Glovere. I heard that de Lisle’s steward, Ralph, set fire to some cottages that belonged to Blanche a few months ago.’

‘The ones at Colne, near Huntingdon?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the Bishop himself mentioning that incident, and then admitting responsibility.

‘Yes,’ agreed Barbour. ‘The King himself heard the case, and deemed the Bishop guilty, so he must have done it. After all, the King could never be wrong.’

‘Never,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But did anyone in de Lisle’s household issue threats against Glovere, that you know of?’

‘The Bishop himself,’ replied Barbour promptly. ‘They had a row in the priory a few days before Glovere died. That is why everyone is willing to believe the Bishop killed him.’

‘People often say things they do not mean in the heat of the moment,’ said Michael. ‘De Lisle has a quick temper, and words spoken in anger should not be held against him. But did anyone else have a quarrel with Glovere? Ralph, the steward, for example?’