A Summer of Discontent

‘So, we can conclude that the killer was careful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His methods are precise, and he probably planned each murder carefully.’

‘But how could he have known that his prey would be obliging enough to walk home alone after dark?’

‘I imagine because they were in the habit of doing so,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And we are assuming that the killer only stalked his victims once. Perhaps he did so on several occasions, but was always thwarted by something.’

‘I suppose you could be right,’ conceded Michael reluctantly.

‘The wounds on his victims’ necks are very small,’ Bartholomew went on thoughtfully. ‘They were not made by a knife with a wide blade, but with one that was thin and long.’

‘Are you sure it was a knife?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it have been something else? A nail or some other sharp implement?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A nail would be about the right size, especially a masonry nail.’

‘What is the difference between a masonry nail and a normal nail?’ asked Michael a little testily, considering it an irrelevant detail.

‘The shafts of nails driven into stones tend to be oval, rather than round. I suppose it makes them easier to hammer into hard surfaces. Given that the church of Holy Cross is currently under construction, and that the octagon and Lady Chapel in the cathedral are barely finished, there must be a number of them lying around.’

‘We should question any masons we come across, then,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps our answer to these deaths will be as simple as that: a mason with a grudge against the city, who likes to spend his spare time randomly selecting townsmen to murder in his peculiar fashion.’

Instead of entering the Mermaid, Michael walked to the edge of the river and gazed across to the marshes on the other side. Bartholomew stood with him, staring down into the murky depths of the water. Michael pointed to the pier that was nearest to them, which stood where the river curved.

‘That is the Monks’ Hythe, where all three bodies were found. You can see that the water is deeper there, but that the current is sluggish. It is common knowledge that anyone falling into the river upstream will fetch up here sooner or later.’

‘Then perhaps these men were murdered elsewhere, and simply floated down this way,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We shall have to take a walk, to see what we can find.’

‘But not today,’ said Michael, squinting up at the bright sun. ‘It is too hot. We shall do it tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Or, better still, you can do it, while I stay here and question more people. You may enjoy paddling around in mud and traipsing through undergrowth in the heat of day, but I certainly do not.’

Michael pushed open the door of the Mermaid Inn and entered. The inside should have been cool, away from the morning sun, especially given that all the window shutters were sealed, thus allowing no warm air inside. But instead it was stuffy. A warm, sickly smell of stale grease mixed with the sharper tang of spilt beer. A number of men were being served by a filthy pot-boy, who constantly scrubbed his running nose on the back of his hand. Bartholomew thought he would rather go hungry than eat in the Mermaid. Apparently, Michael felt the same, because he ordered two small goblets of beer and no food.

‘I do not like debilis cervisia,’ Michael muttered to his friend as the beer arrived. ‘It is virtually the cheapest ale money can buy, and you might as well be drinking water. It could be worse, I suppose: Ely also produces a brew called “skegman”, but the priory usually issues that to its scullions or gives it as alms to the poor. No one would drink it if there was a choice.’

‘This is not bad,’ said Bartholomew, sipping the mixture. It was surprisingly cool, and its mildness meant that he could drink it quickly without running the risk of becoming drowsy or drunk. The priory’s strong beer made him thirsty, and he decided the weak brew served at the Mermaid was perfect for a hot day, despite Michael’s disparaging comments.

As the pot-boy passed, Michael caught his arm. ‘Which one of your customers is Mackerell?’

The boy grinned, revealing yellow teeth encrusted with tartar, and pointed to the window. ‘The one who looks like a pike,’ he replied cheekily, before pulling away from Michael and going about his business.

Bartholomew could see the lad’s point. The man they had come to see had a grey, sallow complexion that reminded the physician of fish scales. This was accompanied by large, sorrowful eyes and a mouth that drooped open in a flaccid gape, much like the carp in the priory’s ponds. The fact that Mackerell was almost bald and wore an apron stiff with the blood and skins of the beasts that provided his living did nothing to dispel the piscine image. Michael took his beer and carried it across to the window. Bartholomew followed.

‘Master Mackerell,’ said Michael, sitting next to the man and favouring him with one of his alarming beams. ‘I wonder if you would mind answering one or two questions.’