A Summer of Discontent

‘But I did not tell her it was you who told me to ask,’ protested Tysilia, with a pout in her voice. ‘And I was discreet. I took care to lower my voice when I put my question.’

‘Well, that is a relief,’ said William heavily. ‘And how did she respond to your clever probing?’

‘Oh, she was a little annoyed,’ said Tysilia cheerfully. ‘She asked me who had put such an idea into my head, and I told her it had occurred to me all by myself, with no prompting from anyone. Then she told me I should never ask such a question again, and that I should leave the matter of Glovere well alone unless I wanted to end up in Abraham’s bosom.’

‘She said that?’ asked William in alarm.

‘Yes. I told her I knew no one called Abraham, but that if I met him I would take care that he did not embrace me. What did she mean, do you think?’

‘She meant that your clumsy enquiries could result in your death,’ said William flatly.

‘Oh,’ said Tysilia. There was silence as she mulled over this piece of information. When she spoke again, it sounded as though Blanche’s words and William’s translation had finally shaken her thick-skinned resilience. ‘She was threatening to kill me?’

‘I do not know,’ said William. ‘If she killed Glovere, then yes, she may well have been threatening to throw you in the river, too. If she did not, then she may simply have been warning you not to meddle in matters that might prove dangerous.’

‘Well, that is all right then,’ said Tysilia, sounding relieved. ‘Blanche told me she did not kill Glovere, and so she cannot have been threatening to kill me.’ Bartholomew could hear that she was pleased with her logic.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What had possessed William to use the doubtful and dangerous talents of a woman like Tysilia as his spy in Blanche’s household? And what had possessed Tysilia to agree to such an arrangement? Did William have evidence that Blanche had murdered Glovere and arranged for the Bishop to be accused of the crime, or was the hosteller merely speculating? Blanche had been at her estates in Huntingdon when Glovere had died. Was her absence deliberate, so that no one would think she was responsible for the death of her own steward? Glovere had not been one of her most prized servants by all accounts, and it was possible that she was delighted to be rid of him and strike a blow against her enemy the Bishop at the same time.

And what about the presence of Blanche with the gypsies in the Mermaid Inn the day before? Was the King’s kinswoman more deeply embroiled in Glovere’s murder than they had thought, and had she engaged the travellers to help her? Were William’s suspicions justified? Bartholomew knew Michael did not believe that it had been Blanche wrapped in Goran’s cloak, but Bartholomew knew what he had seen.

There was something distasteful in listening to others’ conversation, even though it involved a discussion about the murder Michael had been charged to solve. So, when Tysilia started to regale William with ghoulishly intimate details of Blanche’s private life, Bartholomew turned his attention back to his book, trying to ignore the embarrassing revelations that were being made below. Suddenly, there was an angry yelp from Tysilia, a sharp rustling of leaves and then silence. Bartholomew surmised that William had slapped one hand over her mouth and had dragged her deeper into the undergrowth. Puzzled, he peered across the cemetery to see what had alarmed them.

Michael, looking inordinately large in his flowing black robe, was ambling among the tombstones. His casual stance suggested that he was merely taking the air, although Bartholomew knew the monk was not the kind of man to indulge in exercise without good reason. Occasionally he went for a walk when the weather was fine, but he complained bitterly if any distance was covered. Left to his own devices, Michael was far more likely to remain in his room, to work on University business or to enjoy the food and drink he invariably had stashed there.

So, what was he doing in the cemetery, looking as though he were taking a stroll? Fascinated, Bartholomew watched him saunter right past the tree where William and Tysilia were hiding, then cut across the grass to a box-like monument against the south wall of the cathedral. Carefully selecting the side that was hidden from casual observers — unless they happened to be hiding in the trees opposite or watching from the library window — he settled himself on a convenient ledge and turned his face towards the sun.

‘Oh, look!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia sigh. ‘It is that handsome Brother Michael!’

William’s reaction to this description was much the same as Bartholomew’s. ‘Where? I can only see the Michael who lives in Cambridge.’

‘That is the one,’ Tysilia said wistfully. ‘He is the most attractive man I have seen in this city. I wonder why I did not notice his charms before. I have only recently become aware of the fact that he is worthy of my affections.’