A Summer of Discontent

Near the barn was a small gate set into a sturdy wall. It was locked, but Michael had brought the key. He opened it, then locked it behind him. Bartholomew was not surprised that the monks felt the need for security, given the hostility of some of their tenants. And he was not surprised that Leycestre and men like him felt they had a valid grievance against the priory when it was stuffing its overfilled barns with grain that its farmers could ill afford to give.

The gate brought them out into Broad Lane, a spacious street that ran along the rear boundary of the monastery precincts. Several alleys lay at right angles to it, all of them leading towards the river and the hythes. Michael selected Seggewyk Lane, and Bartholomew found himself passing the grand homes of merchants and an assortment of warehouses for storing goods that had been brought to the city by river. In Cambridge, the hythes were seedy and populated by the town’s poor, who were obliged to live near their place of work. In Ely, the hythes were an exclusive area, inhabited by the wealthy. The waterfront itself was wide and spacious, and a far cry from the scrubby grass and muddy footpaths that characterised the riverside at Cambridge.

The river that passed through Ely was wide and green, with a bottom fringed with weeds that waved and undulated in the current. The bank had been strengthened against flood by a stone pier, which ran the whole length of the river between Seggewyk Lane and Water Side. Sturdy bollards provided secure anchorage for the flat-bottomed barges that made their way through the shifting waterways of the Fens to the inland port. Jetties jutted into the river, like fingers, and a number had small boats moored alongside. One or two looked unseaworthy, but most were in good condition, and their owners obviously made a good living by transporting goods to and from Ely.

Flex Lane, Baldock Lane and Water Side converged to form a small square, which was kept neat, clean and clear of clutter, and was known as the Quay. It provided a spot where bargemen could meet with merchants and haggle over prices, and where samples of goods could be unloaded for critical inspection. Some good-natured shouting could be heard at one end of the Quay, as a barge laden with peat faggots and bundles of sedge prepared to get under way, while a group of bantering apprentices lugged caskets of spice towards one of the warehouses at the other end.

The eastern bank of the river was marshland and meadow, and a few straggly sheep grazed among the rushes. A swan glided majestically back and forth, the white of its feathers almost dazzling in the sunlight. It was watched with hungry eyes by a group of barefooted boys. Bartholomew hoped none of them would be rash enough to kill it and take it home to feed his family: swans were the property of the King, and the King was very jealous of the things that were his. It was not unknown for children to be hanged for stealing game.

‘What did you think of Barbour yesterday?’ asked Michael, as they walked towards a low-roofed house with a swinging sign that proclaimed it as the Mermaid Inn. It had been dark the first night they had visited it, and Bartholomew had not been able to examine the building or the sign properly. He did so now, noting the crumbling plaster and the dark patches of rot in the thatch. The mermaid painted on the sign was a lusty-looking wench with a scaly tail, whose leering presence above the door Bartholomew felt was more a deterrent than welcoming.

‘I would not like to witness Barbour bleeding someone,’ he replied. ‘He uses his cooking knives to perform the operation, and it sounds as though spurting blood is commonplace. It is supposed to drip or ooze, not spray out like a fountain.’

‘I meant what did you think about what he told us?’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not interested in an analysis of his surgical skills.’

‘He told us nothing we did not already know or guess,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no obvious connection between the three men; no one liked them; and they all enjoyed a drink in his tavern before someone decided they should not be allowed to waste any more good beer.’

‘Do you think he was holding anything back?’ asked Michael. ‘You told me the Fenfolk would not be forthcoming with what they know, and that I might not be able to gather enough information to identify the killer. Was Barbour holding back on us?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I had the impression that he wanted to provide you with a juicy snippet of information, but that he had nothing to tell.’

‘That is what I thought. Of course, we may both be wrong. But we know for certain that all three men spent their last night at the Lamb, and that whoever killed them was not stupid enough to be seen by witnesses. This is a small town, and if the killer had been lingering outside, someone would have commented on it to Barbour. And I think Barbour would have told us.’