A Summer of Discontent

Barbour brought the ale to the table and then leaned against the door. Bartholomew wondered whether he had chosen that position so that he could have access to a source of fresh air, away from the stench of death that hung around his guests. The physician took a piece of the mutton before Michael could eat it all. It did not taste as good as it looked, and was tough and dry. He suspected that the landlord was only too glad to see it go to a good home, and wondered whether the shortage of cash of which everyone complained meant that Barbour’s customers did not have spare funds to spend on treats like good ale and extra meat.

‘Ralph did not quarrel with Glovere, as far as I know,’ replied Barbour. ‘Although he is a man to slit a fellow’s throat if he thought it would benefit his master. But a number of people wished Glovere dead. Including me. The night he died a number of my customers agreed that Ely would be a nicer place without him. You have to understand that these three men were like the scum on a barrel of beer — good for nothing and an offence to all. But I do not think any of my customers would actually go out and put wishful thoughts into practice.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Michael. ‘And I do not believe it was the Bishop.’

‘Glovere was in here the night he died, trying to spread rumours that one of us was responsible for the burglaries that have plagued Ely over the last two weeks. I had to ask him to leave.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, interested. ‘Why?’

‘He was trying to stir up trouble and create an atmosphere of suspicion and unease in the town. He really was a despicable specimen. It was late and I was tired, and I refused to refill his jug, which did not please him. He was sullen and resentful when he left.’

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Barbour. ‘He lives on Flex Lane, so I assume he went home.’

‘And no one followed him when he left?’ asked Michael.

‘I did not notice. I admit that when I first heard he was dead, I wondered whether Chaloner had done something to him. Glovere brought up the matter of Alice, you see, and suggested that Chaloner might be our burglar. But Chaloner died a week later, and so I dismissed my suspicions on that front.’

‘Did you see Chaloner following Glovere?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I did not. It was a hot night, and I recall several of my patrons lingering outside, reluctant to go to a hard bed and a prickly blanket. But Chaloner was not among them.’

‘Who, then?’ demanded Michael.

‘I did not see — I only spotted shapes in the shadows. Then I went for a walk myself, because, as I said, it was an unpleasantly humid night for sleeping. But Ely is a respectable city — it is not like Cambridge, where killers lurk on every corner. I sincerely doubt that one of our citizens is our culprit, and you are the only strangers who have been here in the last two weeks. Other than the gypsies, of course, but they come every year.’

‘Leycestre is spreading rumours that the gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Michael.

Barbour nodded. ‘But they had no reason to harm the man. Leycestre also thinks they are responsible for all these burglaries — there was yet another last night — and I think that is much more likely. Gypsies like gold.’

‘As opposed to everyone else, who hates it?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Who was burgled last night?’

‘One of the cordwainers who lives on Brodhythe Street. He had sold a consignment of leather laces and had boasted about the high price he got. Then, the very next night, he lost it all when someone broke into his house.’

‘So, whoever committed this theft must have known where to look,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The gypsies would be less likely to have that information than someone who lives permanently in the town.’

‘Not true,’ said Barbour. ‘The cordwainer was celebrating his good fortune loudly, and virtually every man, woman and child in Ely — gypsies included — knew exactly how much money he had in the chest in his attic.’

‘All this has nothing to do with these murders,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I-’

‘Murders?’ pounced Barbour immediately. ‘I heard Glovere was murdered, but was under the impression that Chaloner’s death was an accident and Haywarde took his own life. Do you know different?’

‘All three met their ends in the same way,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘You can ask Father John if you want details. Chaloner and Haywarde were stabbed in the neck, as was Glovere.’

‘I was unaware that the Bishop even knew Chaloner and Haywarde,’ said Barbour in confusion. ‘Why would he kill them?’

‘He did not,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is obvious that someone else dispatched all three. What can you tell me about Chaloner and Haywarde?’