A Summer of Discontent

‘I would,’ replied Mackerell with naked hostility. ‘Bugger off.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Michael, producing a bright coin from his scrip. ‘I was willing to buy you a jug of ale in return for a moment or two of your company.’

‘You can keep your ale,’ replied Mackerell nastily. ‘I have some already.’

‘Debilis cervisia is not ale,’ replied Michael dismissively, casually opening Bartholomew’s medicine bag and removing the small skin of wine that he knew was kept there for medical emergencies. The physician tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch it back. ‘I personally prefer the finest wine from southern France.’

‘We are at war with France,’ said Mackerell icily, unexpectedly patriotic. ‘I would not allow any brew produced by Frenchmen to pass my lips.’

Michael sighed, and took a swallow of the wine before handing it back to Bartholomew. Then he quickly shuffled up the bench, so that Mackerell found himself trapped between the window and the sizeable bulk of the large-boned monk. Mackerell tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Michael favoured him with a grin that was neither humorous nor friendly.

‘Come now, Master Mackerell,’ he said in a soft voice that oozed menace. ‘You cannot object to passing the time of day with a man of God. But neither of us is comfortable crammed together like this, so I will be brief. What do you know about the three bodies you found in the river?’

‘They drowned,’ replied Mackerell sullenly. ‘Now leave me alone.’

‘They did not drown,’ said Michael firmly. ‘They were stabbed. You found all three: should I assume that you had a hand in their deaths?’

Mackerell regarded him with open loathing. ‘Leave me alone, and go back to whatever vile monastery you come from.’

‘Ely,’ whispered Michael sibilantly. ‘I hail from Ely Cathedral-Priory, and I will not be going anywhere. Now, someone has accused my Bishop of murdering one of those men, and I happen to know that he is innocent. I disapprove of innocent men being called to answer for crimes they did not commit, and that is why I want to talk to you.’

Mackerell shrank away from him, unsettled by the monk’s persistence. ‘But I know nothing! It has nothing to do with me!’

‘What has nothing to do with you?’ pounced Michael.

‘Their deaths! I know nothing!’

‘You know something,’ Michael determined, regarding the fish-man intently. ‘Behind all that arrogant bluster, you are a frightened man. If you tell me why, I may be able to help you. If you do not, then perhaps a fourth corpse will appear tomorrow, dripping river water over the church floor, dead by foul means.’

‘Those three died of foul means, all right,’ said Mackerell. ‘There is nothing more foul than a death by water. First comes the shock of the cold, then the water grips you, and the weeds and mud suck at your legs. Then you realise you cannot breathe, so you struggle, but it is to no avail. The water closes over your head, and your ears are full of roaring-’

‘Please!’ exclaimed Bartholomew with a shudder. He had once had a narrow escape from drowning himself, not eight miles from where he now sat and Mackerell’s vivid descriptions brought back memories that he would rather keep suppressed.

Mackerell gave a cold smile. ‘All I can tell you is that the rumours about Haywarde are untrue: he never intended to take his own life. A man intent on killing himself would not choose the Monks’ Hythe to do it. The water there is too slow-moving, and it would be too easy to lose courage and swim to safety.’

‘So, all three were murdered elsewhere, and their bodies thrown into the river upstream,’ deduced Bartholomew.

Mackerell glowered at him. ‘I did not say that. You did.’

Michael sighed again, and eased even closer to the man, so that Mackerell’s breath began to come in agitated pants. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at him, uncomfortable with the monk’s ways of gathering information. ‘Are you telling me that my colleague’s suppositions are wrong?’

‘No,’ gasped Mackerell. ‘I am saying that I was not the one who told you all this.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, easing the pressure a little and rubbing his chin with one fat hand. ‘You are afraid that the wrong person may learn that you have been telling tales. Who?’

‘I did not say that either,’ said Mackerell angrily. ‘You are like the Inquisition, putting words into people’s mouths that they never intended to say! It is typical behaviour for a churchman!’

Michael regarded him sombrely. ‘How did you come to find the bodies?’

‘I am always the first to arrive at the hythes of a morning. Ask anyone here. They will all tell you that I am about my work long before anyone else bothers to stir a lazy limb. Of course I was the one to find them.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, regarding Mackerell in a way that indicated he had not completely accepted the man’s story. Bartholomew supposed it was a ploy intended to make Mackerell nervous, and it seemed to be succeeding.