A Summer of Discontent

Henry shot Alan a resentful glance that made the Prior shuffle uncomfortably.

‘You must try, Henry,’ said Alan. ‘Northburgh said he would pay for a new chapel if you were successful.’

‘I see I shall be joining you in the library, Matt,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘My knowledge of remedies is unparalleled in the Fens, but even I know of no treatment for an ageing skin. Agnes Fitzpayne told me she uses a paste made from raw sparrows’ livers and the grease of boiled frogs, but she does not look especially youthful to me.’

‘You could try-’ began Bartholomew, feeling he had misjudged Henry by assuming the man was confident of success. The quest was an impossible one, and Bartholomew saw that Henry would need all the advice he could get.

‘No!’ said Michael firmly. ‘No medicine while I am eating, please. You can discuss pastes and powders in the infirmary when you are alone. Meanwhile, we were talking about Mackerell.’

‘That is not much of an improvement,’ said Robert laconically.

‘Mackerell is always wandering off alone,’ offered Sub-prior Thomas. ‘He knows the Fens better than he does the city streets, and he often takes himself away. I doubt his disappearance is significant — and it will certainly have nothing to do with William’s absence.’

‘I thought I saw Mackerell this morning,’ said Symon, frowning thoughtfully, as he speared a lump of bread with military precision. ‘I am certain it was his cod-like features and scaly clothes that I spotted near the castle.’

‘What were you doing all the way down there?’ demanded Robert immediately. ‘Hiding from someone who wanted to use the library?’

‘Checking the locks on the tithe barn,’ snapped Symon huffily. ‘I want wheat for bread this winter, even if you do not care whether the peasants steal it all because we are lax with our security.’

‘I care,’ said Thomas vehemently, helping himself to a loaf.

‘Are you sure it was Mackerell you saw?’ asked Michael of Symon. ‘It would be good to know he is alive.’

Symon shook his head apologetically. ‘Not really. In fact, I am almost certainly mistaken. Why would an eel fisherman be inside our grounds at all? He would have no business here.’

‘Mackerell is a miserable soul,’ said Thomas irrelevantly, stabbing half a cheese and hauling it across the table towards him. ‘I am always under the impression that he finds the presence of his fellow men as taxing as we find his.’

‘I do not like him, either,’ agreed Robert, ever ready to say something unpleasant. ‘He charges too much for his eels, when most of them are all bone and no meat.’

‘Like me,’ said Michael, piling his trencher high with nuts. ‘I have become little more than skin and bone since I have been in Cambridge.’

‘True,’ agreed Thomas, assessing Michael’s girth with an experienced eye. Next to his massive form, Michael appeared almost sylph-like. ‘I pray to God that I will never be dispatched to such a place, if it means near-starvation.’

‘You can rest assured that will never happen,’ said Robert maliciously. ‘I hear that the University likes its scholars able to read, and since you are all but illiterate, it would have no cause to extend any invitations to you.’

‘I am not illiterate,’ sighed Thomas, in a weary tone that indicated this argument was not a new one. ‘I just find small words difficult to make out. It is a fault with the eyes, not the mind. Is that not so, Father Prior?’

‘Have you discovered who killed these men yet, Michael?’ asked Alan, apparently preferring to change the subject than to lie. ‘You have had four days now, and I would prefer this murderer to be under lock and key, not free in our city.’

‘Me too,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘But everyone I approach for information lies to me. I cannot catch a killer when I cannot sort out what is fact and what is fiction.’

‘Who has been lying to you?’ asked Alan in surprise. ‘No one should have cause to tell you untruths. We all want this killer caught.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael, eyeing his brethren meaningfully. ‘Three detested men have been slain, and virtually everyone in Ely seems to have a motive for wanting them dead. Thus, there is little incentive for people to want to help me: they are all hoping that this killer will strike again, and rid them of someone else they do not like.’

‘That is not a nice thing to say,’ admonished Henry. ‘You make it sound as though the whole city is looking forward to the next person’s death.’

‘I imagine a few of them will be fearing for their own safety,’ said Robert gleefully. ‘There are a number of people who are good candidates, if the killer is selecting his victims on the basis of their unpopularity. There is that seditious Leycestre and his two lazy nephews; there is that rude Agnes Fitzpayne; and there is that nasty Father John, whose Latin alone is good cause for his murder.’

‘There will be another death,’ warned Michael. ‘And since no one seems prepared to help me, there is little I can do to prevent it, or to save my poor Bishop from these slanderous accusations.’