A Summer of Discontent

Blanche regarded him in astonishment. ‘They are not related! William is my cousin, actually.’

Bartholomew was certain that the claim of kinship was merely William’s clever way of ensuring that he gained Tysilia’s willing services. Poor Tysilia was gullible and a little pathetic, and might well believe such a tale, no matter how improbable. However, Tysilia was actually the Bishop’s illegitimate daughter, although few people, including Tysilia herself, were aware of the fact. William’s claim might mean that he imagined he was de Lisle’s kinsman, too. And if that were true, it could explain why he had gone to some trouble to investigate whether Blanche might have played a role in the murder for which his relative stood accused.

‘Tysilia has an unbreakable habit of securing a man at any place we visit,’ Blanche was saying, cutting across his thoughts. ‘She is like an eel, slipping out of windows and past guards to reach the objects of her lust. Keeping her childless is one of the greatest challenges I have ever faced.’

‘How do you like Ely?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to steer the conversation around to the fact that he had seen Blanche in the Mermaid Inn with the gypsies two days before.

Blanche looked around her disdainfully. ‘Ely is a far cry from Huntingdon, which is as fine a town as ever graced the face of the Earth. But it has its good points, I suppose.’

‘Such as the taverns?’ asked Bartholomew probingly.

Blanche regarded him as though he were insane. ‘How would I know about the taverns? I was thinking of the cathedral. Huntingdon does not have a cathedral.’

‘Have you actually been in any of the taverns? Some of them are comfortable places, and offer decent accommodation for travellers.’

‘I am sure they do,’ said Blanche with distaste. ‘And I can well imagine the kind of traveller who stays in them, too. I am sure the bedclothes are crawling with vermin, while one would share the straw mattresses with rats. It may suit Tysilia, but it would not do for me.’

‘The Mermaid has that reputation,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely for any reaction. ‘Although the Lamb is better.’

‘Well, I would not be caught in either,’ said Blanche firmly. ‘Staying here is bad enough, but it is better than sharing an inn with the common folk. Glovere was fond of the Lamb before the Bishop murdered him. It just goes to show that my wariness of such places is justified.’

‘Tysilia seems uneasy in the priory,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to turn his attention to whether Blanche had heard any rumours regarding the murders, since his clumsy questioning regarding her appearance at the Mermaid seemed unlikely to lead anywhere. He considered asking her directly what she had been doing with the gypsies, but sensed that she would merely deny the incident and end the conversation. And then, if she had been up to no good in dubious company, his revelation of the fact that he suspected her might put him in line for a knife in the neck and a dip in the river.

‘She should be,’ said Blanche. ‘The Bishop is busily killing folk he does not like. He killed my servant first and then — when he found he had a taste for murder — he dispatched the two peasants. And, since I am sure there cannot be any love lost between him and his shameless niece, she should watch herself.’

‘I thought you only accused de Lisle of murdering your steward.’

‘I did, but then I heard that whoever killed Glovere had also dispatched Chaloner and Haywarde. You were paid by Father John to determine the cause of death, so you should not need me to tell you that whoever killed Glovere killed the others, too.’

‘But de Lisle has no reason to kill these men,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘Does he not?’ asked Blanche smugly. She folded her arms and looked at him closely. ‘Tell me, have you ever looked at a person you despise and wished there was something you could do to rid the world of him? Louts who steal? Men who beat their wives? Women who claim they attended the University of Life? Others with spiteful tongues?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the times when greedy and selfish acts had damaged or destroyed the lives and happiness of people he had liked.

‘Well, so has de Lisle. Only whereas the rest of us pray to God to punish the wicked, he imagines he is God and that he has the right to punish offenders himself.’

‘I do not think-’ began Bartholomew.

Blanche stopped him. ‘You and that Brother Michael can do all you like to prove de Lisle innocent, but you will fail. And you should consider your next move very carefully, because you do not want to be associated with the likes of him when the good folk of Ely avenge themselves for the unjust and wicked murders of its citizens.’