A Summer of Discontent

‘Money I gave to my sister and that he took for his own purposes,’ said Agnes. ‘Now, there is a mass in progress. If you are a heathen, who cannot bring himself to listen to Father John’s pious words, then you should leave. If you are a Christian, you will stay and listen in reverent silence.’

The competition between chanting monks and yelling priest was reaching its customary crescendo and Bartholomew was finding it difficult to concentrate on his conversation with the seditious Leycestre and the aggressive Agnes anyway. He opted for the first choice, to the shock of Agnes, and nodded a brief farewell before walking outside. But the discordant racket followed him so he walked more quickly, trying to escape the noise, and ended up racing past the cemetery and towards the infirmary. There, he ran headlong into Michael, who was making his way to the refectory.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are supposed to be celebrating prime. In fact, you were a major part of it, the last I heard.’

‘I could stand it no longer.’ Michael glanced at the physician, breathless from his dash and with wind-blown hair, and smiled. ‘You know exactly what I mean. But I left in a dignified manner, whereas you fled like a cat from water, with ears flattened and terror in your eyes.’

‘It was nasty,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Breakfast,’ declared Michael, knowing that the tables would already be laden with the morning fare, and that an early arrival would allow him to select the best of it.

‘And then what?’

Michael sighed. ‘I really have no idea. Everyone tells me that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were hated. That means that anyone from the city could have killed them. Meanwhile, certain factions in the town tell me that the deaths — and various burglaries — only started when the gypsies arrived in Ely.’

‘Only Leycestre really seems to believe that,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Others listen to his raving, but do not act on it.’

‘They acted last night,’ Michael pointed out, referring to the incident outside the Lamb that Bartholomew had described while the monk had devoured his final meal of the day the previous evening. ‘You told me they were ready for a lynching.’

‘They were drunk, and drunks are not noted for their powers of reason and common sense.’

‘I do not know what to do next, actually,’ confessed Michael gloomily, his thoughts returning to his floundering investigation. ‘I could bribe a riverman to take me to Mackerell’s Fenland lair. I am even considering asking whether Stretton or Northburgh have learned anything of value — and I am certain they could not have done, so you can see how desperate I am.’

‘Northburgh spent all yesterday pestering poor Henry about “cures” for old age. He is not interested in solving this case, only in cheating death. And Canon Stretton was far too drunk to have learned anything at all, other than that bona cervisia is a powerful brew.’

‘Perhaps I should engage Tysilia to help me, as William has done,’ grumbled Michael bitterly. ‘I have never been quite so much at a loss in a case before.’

After breakfast, Bartholomew wandered outside, leaving Michael to the dubious delights of conversation with his fellow monks. It was unprepossessing company as far as the physician was concerned. Prior Alan was distracted and uncommunicative, because his clever mind was wrestling with some technical problem relating to his beloved octagon; Sub-prior Thomas was incensed that Michael had selected the best of the breakfast items before he had arrived, and was busily feeding in sullen silence with his vast jowls quivering in agitation; and Almoner Robert, who usually passed the time at meals by fighting with Hosteller William, was grim-faced and silent because William was not there. The only person who offered a potentially enjoyable discussion was Henry, but he was taking breakfast in the infirmary. Judging from his own experiences, Bartholomew did not blame Henry for preferring the company of deaf or senile monks to the bickering in the refectory.

Bartholomew hovered by the refectory’s back door, then stretched out an arm to halt the urgent progress of Brother Symon as he shot out a few moments later. Displeased that his attempt to disappear had been thwarted, the librarian only agreed to open the door to his domain with very bad grace. While he waited for the monk to fetch the key from wherever he hid it each night, Bartholomew stared out across the graves in the cemetery and thought about the work he planned to do that day.

As he gazed, he saw a spot of colour among the leaves of the tree that William and Tysilia had used for their tryst the previous day. It was moving this way and that in an agitated manner; then he became aware of a peculiar noise, too. It sounded like sobbing. Curious, he walked through the dew-soaked grass and approached the tree.