A Summer of Discontent

‘I know nothing,’ said Mackerell again. ‘All I can tell you is that you may be right when you say they went into the water away from the town — either that or they were dumped in the Monks’ Hythe very late at night, because no one here saw or heard anything as far as I know.’

‘I see,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen any strangers here recently? Folk you do not know, or who you consider dangerous?’

‘The Bishop often strolls down here of an evening,’ said Mackerell slyly. ‘He is dangerous.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Michael, becoming angry. ‘Have there been mercenaries or rough men, who might stab a man for his purse?’

‘The gypsies,’ said Mackerell immediately. ‘They have been burgling their way around the town, and so it is possible that they have been murdering people, too.’

Michael sat back, finally releasing the fish-man. ‘You have not been helpful at all. I have a good mind to arrest you, and see that you spend a few nights in the Prior’s cells.’

‘Arrest me?’ asked Mackerell, the belligerence in his voice replaced by a sudden hope. ‘You will put me in the prison near the castle?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael with grim determination. ‘But the Prior’s prison is not a place most sane men would want to be. Do not look as though you consider it a rare treat.’

‘I would be safe there. It is a long way from the river, and the water-spirits will not be able to penetrate the walls. Yes, take me, Brother. Lock me away.’

Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘It was not water-spirits that murdered those men: it was a person. And this person must be stopped before he harms anyone else.’

‘You know nothing,’ said Mackerell contemptuously. ‘The spirits are all-seeing, and they will know if I betray them. But the prison is a safe distance from the river, and no one would ever think to look there …’

‘It would be more comfortable if we arranged for you to stay in the priory precincts,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘I am sure a bed can be found in the stables or in the infirmary.’

Mackerell shook his head firmly. ‘It will have to be the prison — at least until the water-spirits have had their fill of human souls and return whence they came. The prison has locks and thick walls.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael impatiently, never a man interested or tolerant of the superstitions that governed the lives of many common folk. ‘There is no such thing as water-spirits.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Mackerell. ‘But I will not talk to you here. Put me in the cells first, and then I will discuss the spirits with you. If-’

He broke off as the door opened and Bartholomew was surprised to see the gypsies enter — Guido first, then the slack-jawed Rosel with Eulalia, and finally Goran, who wore a hood over his head to protect it from the sun. Eulalia smiled at Bartholomew and waved, earning a black glower from Guido.

Just as Goran was closing the door behind him, one of the stray dogs that lived on the streets rushed in, and there was a commotion as it ran around the tables barking at people and snapping at ankles. It was almost wild, and the foam that oozed from its mouth indicated that it was probably sick. No one wanted to touch it, and it was some time before it was evicted and calm was restored. When Bartholomew turned his attention back to Mackerell, the man had gone.

The pot-boy came to stand next to them. ‘Mackerell says he will meet you at the priory gate on Broad Lane tomorrow after compline,’ he said in his annoyingly cheerful voice. ‘He told me that he wants to put his affairs in order first, but that he will tell you all you need to know then, in return for the favour you offered.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly, unamused that their witness had made his escape so easily. Seeing that there was nothing to be done about Mackerell, Bartholomew wandered across the tavern to talk to Eulalia, leaving the monk to the dubious pleasure of the pot-boy’s company.

‘He is a slippery one, that Mackerell,’ said the boy, correctly deducing from the frustrated expression on Michael’s face that the fish-man had ducked away in the middle of a conversation. ‘Just like the eels he catches. What was he going to tell you? Perhaps I can help. You can give me the coin instead.’

‘Tell me about the water-spirits, then,’ said Michael tiredly.

The boy gazed at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Is that what he was talking about? You should keep your money, Brother! Mackerell is a superstitious old fool! Water-spirits!’

Some of the men on the next table overheard him, and exchanged grins, shaking their heads in amusement.

‘Mackerell grew up deep in the Fens,’ called one of them, addressing Michael. ‘They all worship water-spirits out there. In Ely, though, we are Christians and do not believe in pagan ghosts. Mackerell knows his eels right enough, but do not engage him on matters of religion.’