A Summer of Discontent (37 page)

‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘Were you with him when he died?’

Henry’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. He
tried to speak, but no words came.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I fell asleep,’ said Henry in a muffled whisper. ‘I did not work on the accounts while I watched over him, because I thought
I might doze off with the heat and the lack of recent rest, and so I decided to mix Ynys’s medicine instead. But as soon as
I sat down, I must have fallen into a slumber. Even if God sees fit to forgive me for this, I will never forgive myself!’

His voice cracked and he put both hands over his face as his shoulders shook with anguish. Michael turned him around and guided
him through the hall, where he sat the distraught infirmarian down in his workshop. The old men slept fitfully, although Roger
seemed to be watching what was happening. In the chamber at the far end of the hall, Bartholomew could see Prior Alan kneeling
at the bed where Thomas lay. Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew’s wineskin still lay on the table, its
contents untouched, so he poured some into a goblet and urged Henry to drink. After a few moments, Henry regained control
of himself. His shuddering sobs subsided, and he was able to give them a wan smile.

‘I am sorry. I hate to lose a patient. It is not why I became a physician.’

‘You cannot blame yourself for falling asleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew you were exhausted; I should not have left you.’

‘I wish you had not,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I hope to God that poor Thomas did not wake to find he was alone in his last few
moments of life.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

‘I sat here and began to grind the cloves,’ continued Henry unsteadily, ‘and the next thing I knew was that my head was on
the table and Prior Alan was shaking my shoulder, asking whether I was unwell. I leapt to my feet and ran to Thomas, lest
he had been calling for me, but he was dead. I hope it was a peaceful end.’

Bartholomew patted his shoulder, then went to look at the sheeted form that lay in Henry’s bed. While Alan continued to pray,
and Henry and Michael looked on, Bartholomew pulled back the cover, and saw the still features of the sub-prior beneath, layers
of fat already waxy white as they rippled away from his face. Bartholomew thought Henry’s diagnosis had been right, and the
sub-prior had indeed slipped away in his sleep. But his stay in Ely had made him cautious: he slipped one hand under the back
of Thomas’s neck and then withdrew it in alarm. Something cold and metallic was there.

Alan leapt to his feet in horror when Bartholomew tugged the inert figure on to its side, revealing the short blade that protruded
from the base of its neck. The bed-covers below were stained red, and when Bartholomew touched the knife he found it was firm
and unyielding under his fingers. Someone had forced it in very hard. However, there was no grazing of Thomas’s ears or cheeks,
because the killer had not needed to secure his victim this time: Thomas had been powerless to defend himself.

‘No!’ cried Henry at the top of his voice. In the hall, the old men started to call out, frightened by the sudden clamour
in their usually serene environment. ‘Not in my infirmary!’

‘My God!’ breathed Alan, crossing himself slowly. ‘My God!’

‘Well,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes. ‘Our killer
is
growing bold. Now he is taking his victims in broad daylight
inside
the priory itself, while Henry was only a short distance away.’

‘But I saw no one,’ whispered Henry. ‘I do not know how long I slept, but it could not have been more than a few moments.
What have I done?’

‘
You
have done nothing,’ said Alan grimly. ‘It is not you who is prowling around killing sick men as they sleep.’

‘I shall never forgive myself!’ whispered Henry, his face as white as snow. ‘If I had not been so weak, I would have
stayed awake and this would never have happened.’

‘You are assuming you would have been able to prevent it,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Your exhaustion probably saved your life,
because the murderer is a ruthless man who would have killed you, too. You would not have been able to save Thomas, even if
you had been awake.’

‘And I would have had a good deal more to grieve about,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Thomas was not one of Ely’s better monks,
but you are. The priory would have lost a far greater prize in you than in Thomas.’

‘No!’ objected Henry, distressed. ‘You cannot say such things! Thomas occasionally gave me wine from his own cellars for my
patients. He was not all bad.’

‘And why did he do that?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Because it was past its best and he could not bring himself to pour it
down the drain?’

Henry swallowed miserably. ‘That is not the point. He thought of the sick when he had supplies to share. But I cannot believe
this has happened. I heard nothing and saw nothing.’

‘I am sure you did not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘This killer is too good to leave witnesses or clues.’

W
HILE HENRY WENT TO CALM HIS ELDERLY PATIENTS, AND
Alan redoubled the fervour of his prayers over Thomas’s bloated corpse, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the infirmary chapel,
their thoughts in turmoil. They talked in low voices, so that no one could hear.

‘We were virtually present when this happened,’ whispered Michael, his green eyes huge in his white face. ‘This monster took
his fifth victim while we were right outside the building!’

‘I wonder whether we saw him,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to recall what he had seen as they had lingered with de Lisle and
Ralph in the Dark Cloister. ‘I spotted Symon, then Julian, then Welles and finally Alan. What about you?’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘No killer would have gone about his grisly business knowing we had actually watched him enter
the hospital. He would have crept in through the back door, not through the Dark Cloister.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He killed Robert and carried the body to the Monks’ Hythe in broad daylight. He is
not a timid fellow, and he seems oblivious of the fact that he might be caught.’

‘There is a difference this time, though,’ said Michael, staring down the hall to where Thomas’s mammoth form could just be
seen, swathed in a white sheet, with Alan kneeling next to it. ‘He left the murder weapon. He did not do that with the others.
That must help us.’

Bartholomew had noticed. ‘It was the paring knife I saw earlier, when Henry, Julian and Welles were preparing the inmates’
breakfasts. It disappeared briefly, and I assumed
Julian had stolen it, but it had been replaced on the workbench before we left for the refectory.’

‘Julian,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘We have always agreed he was a good suspect. He has a fascination with sharp objects,
and now you say you saw him in possession of the murder weapon not an hour before this crime was committed.’

‘The only problem with that notion is that the paring knife is not what killed the other victims.’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Because the injury on Thomas is a different shape. You may recall I told you that the others’ wounds were made with something
long and thin, perhaps rather like a nail.’

‘So, what are you saying? That Julian killed Thomas, but not Glovere, Chaloner, Haywarde and Robert?’

Bartholomew spread his hands. ‘Julian saw Robert’s corpse, if not the others, and may have overheard us discussing how these
men were killed. It is not wholly beyond the realm of possibility that he wanted to try it out for himself, and used the much-detested
sub-prior for his experiment.’

‘Should we arrest him, then?’

Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘The problem with doing that is that we have no incontrovertible proof that he is the killer. Do
not forget that we also saw Symon enter the infirmary. In fact, the librarian was the first of a number of people to wander
in, and he would have had plenty of time to kill his sub-prior – he was all alone with him while Henry slept and before Julian
and Welles arrived for work. He has been lurking near Thomas’s sickbed all day, and he also was in the workroom when I first
noticed the presence of that paring knife.’

‘Welles?’ suggested Michael. ‘What about him as our cunning criminal?’ He rubbed his face hard. ‘Lord, Matt! What am I saying?
Welles is a nice lad – cheerful and hardworking. Why would he suddenly turn killer?’

‘Perhaps some of Julian’s personality wore off on him. It is not inconceivable that spending day after day in company like
that may have a polluting effect.’

‘There is Alan, too,’ said Michael softly, looking over at the Prior, who was shifting uncomfortably next to Thomas, finding
the stone floor hard on his knees. ‘He was the last person to enter the hospital, and the one who woke Henry. We must not
leave him off our list of suspects.’

‘He was the last one you
saw
enter the hospital,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘You said yourself that the culprit may have reached Thomas by going through
the back door.’

‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, disheartened. ‘We are no further forward now than we were
before
this maniac claimed a fifth soul to add to his collection. We have another victim who was disliked by most people who knew
him, and we have a knife conveniently available. How am I supposed to discover who did this, when virtually anyone in the
entire monastery could be responsible?’

‘Not just in the monastery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are townsfolk who may have heard of Thomas’s vulnerable state,
too. There are at least a hundred layfolk employed here – one of them may be the killer, or may have helped the killer gain
access to Thomas. And do not forget that the Outer Hostry is bulging at the seams with visitors, too.’

He stopped speaking when Alan entered the chapel, his sandalled feet tapping softly on the worn flagstones. The Prior genuflected
in front of the altar, and gazed at it for a moment, his thin face haggard.

‘Tell us what happened, exactly,’ said Michael, watching him. ‘Did you see Thomas dead and go to rouse the slumbering Henry?’

‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Alan, seeming appalled by that notion. ‘I glimpsed Thomas lying still and silent through the
open door of his chamber, but assumed he was sleeping. I was actually looking for Henry – to ask him for a report on Thomas’s
health. When I saw Henry dozing in the room next door, I went to shake his shoulder. I did not think he had fallen asleep
intentionally, and imagined he would prefer to be awake when Thomas was so ill.’

‘It is that cure for wrinkles you promised Bishop Northburgh,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Henry is working feverishly
on it, and it is too much for him with his other duties, too.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ acknowledged Alan sheepishly. ‘I thought he could manage – he is an excellent physician, after all.
Anyway, I touched him on the shoulder and he jolted upright, looking as confused and startled as a scalded cat. He sat for
a moment blinking and staring, then seemed to recall that he was supposed to be caring for a sick patient. He all but shoved
me out of the way in his haste to reach the next room. It was clear he had been dozing for some time.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Because it took him a few moments to gather his wits once you had woken
him?’

‘Because there was a sizeable puddle of drool on the table, where his head had rested,’ replied Alan, rather proud of his
powers of observation. ‘It is still there, actually. You know how that happens when you doze heavily in an awkward position.’

‘I do not,’ said Michael primly. ‘I never drool. But what happened after that?’

‘Henry fussed around with Thomas’s bedclothes for a moment, and wiped his face with a cloth. Then it seemed to occur to him
that all was not well. He held a glass in front of Thomas’s mouth, then put his ear to Thomas’s chest.’

‘And Thomas was dead,’ concluded Michael.

‘But still warm to the touch. Henry told me that was because Thomas had only just died, combined with the facts that he has
a large body for retaining heat, and because the weather is hot.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Those factors would combine in making a corpse cool more slowly.’

‘I started to pray,’ continued Alan. ‘There was no reason to assume Thomas had not slipped away in his sleep at that
point. Meanwhile, poor Henry stumbled to the door for some fresh air. He hates to lose a patient. Then you came in.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the sickroom that you noticed?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Anything that might suggest the
identity of the killer?’

Alan shook his head. ‘I saw Symon enter the infirmary a little while before I did; you might want to ask him whether he saw
anything strange. You can also question Julian and Welles: they were also in the vicinity.’

‘We shall,’ determined Michael. He rubbed his hands across his flabby cheeks, making a rasping sound that was loud in the
peaceful chapel. He was about to add something else when there was a commotion in the hall, and he poked his head around the
door to see that de Lisle had arrived, demanding to know what had happened. It seemed that bad news spread quickly.

‘This will reflect badly on me,’ the Bishop declared, marching into the chapel and addressing his agent. ‘People will say
that
I
had the sub-prior murdered, as well as a couple of peasants and the servant of a woman I detest.’

‘And that would never do,’ said Alan, watching de Lisle with some dislike. Bartholomew noted that the prelate was unusually
mercurial in his moods. The previous day, many people had been impressed by his graciousness and poise, and by his genuine
compassion for Robert, but now he was back to the selfishness that made him so unpopular. It was all very well for Michael
to say he found his Bishop remarkable, but for a good part of the time the Bishop was remarkable only for his arrogance, self-interest
and ambition.

‘People will say no such thing about you,’ said Michael soothingly, if probably untruthfully. ‘If anything, they will begin
to see that you had nothing to do with the death of Glovere, because you have no reason to wish any of these other people
harm.’

‘As I told you, not an hour ago, I want this criminal caught,’ shouted de Lisle furiously. ‘It is bad enough being accused
of murder, without the people in my See being
dispatched by some monster who feels it incumbent on himself to slaughter monks in broad daylight on holy ground.’

‘We were—’ began Michael.

‘You have always been excellent at solving this kind of mystery,’ snapped de Lisle, pacing back and forth. ‘Yet, when the
outcome is important to me personally, you seem to be dragging your heels.’

‘I am doing nothing of the kind,’ said Michael, his eyes dangerously cold. ‘You know very well that I have been working hard.
This case is just more complicated than I anticipated, that is all. I told you all this earlier.’

De Lisle sensed that he had overstepped the mark, and that if he wanted Michael’s continued services then he would need to
adopt a more conciliatory attitude. Bartholomew supposed the prelate was frustrated because Michael was the only person who
could clear his name to everyone’s satisfaction. Bishop Northburgh and Canon Stretton were worse than useless; Michael was
his only hope. De Lisle’s face softened, and he laid an apologetic arm across the monk’s shoulders.

‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he said. ‘I am not myself today. That wretched Blanche has been aiming to damage me and my reputation
ever since I had the misfortune to cross her path twenty-five years ago. Of course, Tysilia is at the heart of it.’

‘Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into blurting an interruption.

‘She is my niece,’ said the Bishop, smiling fondly. ‘But, of course, you know her from that business that took you to St Radegund’s
Convent earlier this year.’

Bartholomew knew that Tysilia was far more closely related to the prelate than that, although how someone as brazenly dim-witted
as Tysilia could be the offspring of the wily Thomas de Lisle was completely beyond Bartholomew’s comprehension.

‘Why would she be at the heart of your quarrel with Blanche?’ he asked curiously.

The Bishop shot him a look that indicated that if he could not use his imagination, then he should not speak. The physician
glanced at Michael, who obliged him with an almost imperceptible wink. Bartholomew’s mind whirled. Were they saying that the
mother of Tysilia was Lady Blanche, and that the first meeting of churchman and noblewoman had resulted in something more
permanent than a nodding acquaintance? Michael saw the understanding dawn in his friend’s eyes, and smiled to show that those
suppositions were correct. Bartholomew stared down at his feet, so he would not have to look at de Lisle.

‘I do not understand what you are talking about,’ said the less worldly Alan. ‘Why should your niece be at the root of your
problems with Blanche?’

‘Blanche foisted the child on me a long time ago,’ said de Lisle, walking to the window to gaze out across the graveyard.
‘I was an innocent young man then, and when Blanche came to me with an unwanted child and asked me to give it a home, I obliged.
I felt sorry for it.’

‘But why should she ask
you
such a thing?’ pressed Alan, failing to put together the clues that stared him in the face – although Bartholomew was certain
the Bishop would be content if the Prior remained blissfully ignorant. ‘You were a churchman, not a landowner with a family
of your own. You seem an odd choice of guardian to me.’

‘I imagine she detected my kind heart, and decided to use it to her advantage,’ said de Lisle smoothly. ‘She was about to
be married to the Earl of Lancaster, and could hardly present him with a recently born child from an illicit liaison. I helped
a woman in distress, and my act of charity has plagued me ever since.’

‘I see,’ said Alan, although his eyes remained puzzled. ‘She feels guilty about abandoning the child, and feels anger because
she is in your debt. It is often the way that a kindness eventually produces resentment on the part of the beneficiary. It
is one of the reasons why I am reluctant to be overly indulgent to my peasants.’

‘It is hardly the same—’ began Bartholomew, who thought Alan could afford to be a little more generous in that direction.
Then men like Leycestre would not be plotting a rebellion.

De Lisle cut him off. ‘Suffice to say that Blanche will do all in her power to harm me. It is most unjust.’

‘It is unjust,’ agreed Alan. ‘A selfless act should never culminate in merciless persecution.’

‘Let us return to these murders,’ said de Lisle, who at least had the grace to be disconcerted by Alan’s misguided sympathy.
‘You must arrest this killer, Michael. And the sooner the better. We shall meet again this time tomorrow, when I want to hear
that the wretched man is in a prison cell.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael. ‘This morning we will speak again to Henry, Symon, Welles and Julian.’ His glance at Alan
implied that the Prior should not consider himself immune to further investigation, either. ‘And I will ask whether any of
my brethren recognise that book of hours and the chalice we retrieved from the granary yesterday.’