A Summer of Discontent

Michael nodded. ‘It means that William may have discovered something I have not.’ He rubbed his hands in sudden glee. ‘Now this is more like it! I was afraid I might be obliged to deal with some mindless butcher, who kills because the fancy takes him. Such a person might prove impossible to find — unless he grows so bold that he reveals himself by accident. But now I learn that no less a person than the hosteller — one of the priory’s most important officers — is recruiting spies and asking questions.’

‘I do not know why you consider that good news, Brother. William may be asking questions because he is the culprit, and his enquiries are merely to allow him to gloat as people speculate about his identity.’

‘He will not outwit me,’ boasted Michael. ‘A clever man will have a certain method in his actions, which a man who kills by instinct will not. Patterns are revealing clues for us: we will be able to use them to trap him.’

Bartholomew laughed softly. ‘A few moments after you left, Sub-prior Thomas doubled back on himself and bumped into Tysilia. I saw from his face that he thought she was the reason why the Bishop was in the cemetery.’

Michael’s green eyes grew huge and round. ‘Really?’ he chuckled. ‘It is not common knowledge that de Lisle has a “niece”, and no one is likely to believe him if he conveniently produces one now. And no one will accept that it was William she was meeting, either. That sly, treacherous dog will never own up to meeting his doxy in the bushes.’

‘There is nothing to suggest she is his doxy, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They stood chastely side by side, and the only physical contact was when William dragged her out of sight when you arrived. Anyway, Tysilia has set her heart on you.’

Michael glanced sharply at him. ‘What are you talking about? She barely knows me, and I can assure you that I have done nothing to encourage her attentions.’

‘Perhaps not, but it is you she admires. She was telling William how handsome and manly you are.’

‘Then she has better taste than I credited her with,’ said Michael, not sounding at all surprised that he had secured her devotions. ‘However, she will be disappointed to learn that I am unavailable. She will just have to resort to William, or someone equally inferior.’

‘She is a determined woman,’ warned Bartholomew, smiling. ‘You may find yourself powerless to resist her wiles.’

‘But I am a determined man. Still, I am more interested in her relationship with William than her perfectly understandable attraction to me. That suggests a plot, sure enough.’

‘We will see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Mackerell can throw some light on the matter. Come on, Brother. The sun is beginning to set and our fishy friend will be waiting.’

They had almost reached the priory’s back gate, beyond the neat rows of vines, when Bartholomew spotted someone walking ahead of them. Normally, seeing another person in an area populated by about a hundred monks and their servants would not have been cause for comment, but there was something about the way this figure moved that set warning bells jangling in Bartholomew’s mind. He grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him to one side. The vines were not tall, so the two scholars were obliged to crouch in undignified positions.

‘It is Sub-prior Thomas,’ whispered Michael, parting the foliage like a curtain and peering out. ‘You were right to suggest we keep out of sight, because he is moving in a way that says he is up to no good at all. I wonder what he is doing.’

‘Whatever it is, he must consider it important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These vineyards represent a hard walk for a man of his girth, and I cannot imagine he is doing this for fun.’

Thomas stood gasping for breath, fanning his cascading chins furiously in a vain attempt to cool himself down. Even from a distance, Bartholomew could see the rivulets of sweat that coursed down the man’s face and made dark patches on his habit.

They did not have to wait long to find out what had enticed Thomas to leave the luxury and comparative cool of the monastery buildings. Another figure emerged from the direction of the back gate. The person walked briskly towards Thomas, and they embarked on a hurried conversation, during which a neat white parcel was passed to the sub-prior.

‘Who is that?’ whispered Michael urgently, trying to push leaves out of the way. ‘Can you see?’

Bartholomew eased himself forward. ‘No. But it is someone who feels obliged to wear his hood pulled over his face. That in itself suggests something unusual, given the warmth of the evening. Should we try to get closer?’

‘Well, there is not much point in spying if you cannot see or hear what is going on, is there?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Hurry up, or they will have finished their business before we reach them.’