A Summer of Discontent (42 page)

Roger smiled at him. ‘I was glad you were not with Thomas when he died, Henry – you would have absolved him of all his crimes
against us, and he did not deserve that.’ He turned bright eyes on Michael. ‘Poor Henry was so tired from all his nights of
vigil that he slept in Julian’s chamber while Thomas died. I saw him, drooling with his head on the table.’

‘Please!’ whispered Henry, mortified. ‘You do not have to remind me of my negligence.’

Roger’s sharp expression softened. ‘I apologise, Henry. I have allowed my dislike of Thomas to overshadow my concern for your
feelings. But I am still grateful you were not there to absolve him. I am glad it was someone else.’

‘Someone else?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘You saw someone else with Thomas at the time of his death? Who?’

‘Eh?’

‘WHO WAS WITH HIM?’ bellowed Michael.

‘Armour! A sword!’ hollered Ynys. ‘The Scots are coming!’

‘I do not know whether he was a Scot,’ said Roger. ‘I did not see the fellow clearly.’

‘Was it a monk?’ demanded Michael. ‘A lay-brother?’

Roger scratched his head. ‘I did not notice. I saw a fellow in a dark cloak leave the room where Thomas lay. Later – I am
not sure how long, because time means little to me these days – Alan arrived, and he and Henry went to tend Thomas. Then Henry
reeled from the chamber for some air, and I could tell from the expression on his face that Thomas had taken a turn for the
worse.’

‘Death
is
a turn for the worse,’ agreed Michael wryly. ‘It is a pity Julian had his back to the window, and saw none of these comings
and goings. JULIAN SAW NO ONE COME THROUGH EITHER DOOR.’

‘I can well believe it,’ said Roger. ‘The boy is not observant, and anyone intent on mischief would find it easy to elude
him.’

‘How did this cloaked man leave?’ shouted Bartholomew, looking at Roger. ‘Through the back door?’

Roger nodded. ‘He was walking slowly, his head bowed in prayer, and he was making the sign of the cross.’

‘Symon!’ exclaimed Michael in satisfaction. ‘We already have his confession that he cut through the infirmary hall to reach
his library.’

‘Did you see this figure enter the hall the same way?’ asked Bartholomew loudly.

Roger gave one of his pink smiles. ‘I saw no one arrive – I doze, you see, so I may have been sleeping – but I saw this fellow
leave, after kneeling a while with Thomas. As I said, it appeared as though he was praying as he went.’

‘You observed the way he walked, and yet you cannot tell me whether he was a monk?’ said Michael, in disbelief.

‘Not very often,’ said Roger, answering whatever he thought Michael had asked. ‘Few of the younger ones bother with us, and
visitors are rare. Prior Alan comes occasionally, but apart from Henry, that vile Julian and young Welles, we seldom see anyone.
That was why I noticed the fellow who came to see Thomas.’

‘Can you describe him?’ yelled Bartholomew. ‘WHAT WAS HE WEARING?’

‘I could not see whether he had an ear-ring,’ replied Roger, puzzled by the question. ‘Not that I would have noticed, given
that his hood was up. He must be like me, and feels the cold.’

‘He did not want to be seen,’ said Michael. ‘And he wore this cloak for the same reason.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘I did
not see Symon wearing a cloak.’

‘But Alan’s prior’s habit is cloak-like,’ suggested Bartholomew softly.

‘All our robes would look cloak-like to Roger,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘He does not see well. Besides, we are Benedictine
monks, and all of us own dark cloaks with hoods that we could use for a disguise.’

‘But it would be unusual to wear one today,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is hot, and anyone wearing a cloak would stand out
as odd.’

‘He probably removed it as soon as he left the infirmary via the rear door,’ said Michael, disgusted. ‘Damn it all! Here we
have a man who actually
saw
this killer, and all he can tell us is that the fellow disguised himself.’

‘Thomas was murdered,’ shouted Bartholomew to Roger. ‘Can you tell us any more about this person you saw? It is very important.’

‘Thomas’s mother?’ asked Roger, confused. ‘What does she have to do with this? I imagine she is long since in her grave.’

‘THOMAS WAS MURDERED!’ yelled Bartholomew.

‘The Scots are here!’ howled Ynys. ‘Lock up your cattle!’

‘Murdered?’ demanded Roger. ‘You told me he had a seizure. Which is it?’

‘One led to the other,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Can you tell us any more about this visitor?’

‘I saw him only for an instant,’ said Roger. ‘It is a pity: now I know what he did, I wish I had shaken his hand. But I have
told you all I know: I glimpsed a figure leaving Thomas’s room, and he was praying – probably asking God to reward him for
the good he had done.’

‘That is not kind,’ said Henry admonishingly. ‘And if you know anything at all, you should tell Michael so that he can prevent
more people being harmed.’

‘I know nothing more,’ said Roger. ‘I wish him luck in evading you, though. There are plenty more of our “sainted” brethren
whom the priory would be better without.’

‘Like who?’ asked Michael curiously. Roger leaned forward in exasperation, pulling his ear to indicate that Michael should
speak louder. ‘WHO ELSE WOULD THE PRIORY BE BETTER WITHOUT?’

‘Robert,’ replied Roger immediately. ‘He steals alms intended for the poor, and has been doing it for years. It is also a
wicked sin to demand payment from the pilgrims who visit our shrine. And William is not much better.’

‘He steals from the priory, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He pits one man against another, so that their division will make him stronger. It would not surprise me to learn that
he
is behind this cruel slander against the Bishop.’

‘Would it not?’ mused Michael softly. ‘Now that is interesting.’

When their questions showed that Roger knew nothing more, and that the list of monks he wanted to send to an
early grave were those to whom he had taken a personal and frequently irrational dislike, Bartholomew and Michael left the
infirmary and went to the Outer Hostry, to speak to Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue.

Blanche was just sitting down to a meal, and her table was almost as loaded with food as were the ones in the monks’ refectory.
There were roasted trout, plates of boiled eel, a huge pot of parsnips and a dish of bright green peas. There was bread, too,
in tiny loaves made from the priory’s finest white flour. She glanced up when the two scholars tapped on the door, but did
not stop her dining preparations. She rolled up her sleeves, so that grease would not spoil them, while a lady-in-waiting
tied a large piece of cloth around her neck. A sizeable knife, the blade of which had been honed so many times that it had
been worn into a sharp point, was presented to her, and then she was ready.

‘Interesting knife,’ said Bartholomew in an undertone to Michael. Since he had identified the killer’s unique way of dispatching
his victims, he had taken to inspecting people’s weapons, to see whether any matched the length and width necessary to commit
the crime. Blanche’s fitted nicely.

‘You think that could be the murder weapon?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘And she is using it to eat her dinner?’

‘Perhaps she does not know it might have been used for purposes other than culinary. Or perhaps she is not as squeamish as
you are.’

‘So, she or one of her retinue may be the killer,’ muttered Michael. ‘You suggested the killer was a monk. But you could be
wrong, because the guests who stay in the Outer Hostry also have access to the vineyards and the hospital.’

‘I was right when I said we did not need any more information, though,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘The more we have, the further
away seems the solution.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked Blanche, stretching her arms and flexing her fingers in anticipation. It appeared that, for her, eating
involved a considerable amount of physical exercise. ‘I would invite you to dine, but the monks have not been
generous in their portions, and I would not like to go hungry because you have chosen to visit me now when it would have
been more polite to defer.’

‘Murder is a business that will not wait,’ said Michael pompously. ‘I will do whatever is necessary to catch this killer –
even interrupt meals.’

‘You already have your killer,’ said Blanche wearily. ‘The Bishop.’

‘That is unlikely, given that other men have died since Glovere,’ said Michael. ‘I know for a fact that he did not kill Thomas.
And if he is innocent of that, then he did not kill the others.’ Glibly he omitted the fact that he knew no such thing, and
that, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, de Lisle was still firmly on their list of suspects.

Blanche registered her irritation. ‘I am not saying that he murdered them with his own hands; I am saying that he issued the
instructions and that others obeyed them. De Lisle threatened to kill my steward, and I am sure De Lisle ordered Glovere’s
death. Pass me one of those trout, will you? It will save me standing.’

Michael produced the ivory-handled knife he used for cutting up his own food, and speared a dead fish on its point. Grease
dripped across the table as he transferred it from the serving dish to Blanche’s trencher. All around them, hands stretched
and grabbed as the retainers began their own meal, although no one spoke. The conversation between Michael and Blanche was
too interesting for that.

At that moment, the door opened behind them and Tysilia entered the room with Ralph at her heels. The Bishop’s steward looked
grey and tired, as though less than a day in Tysilia’s company had already drained him of energy. When Tysilia saw Michael,
she gave a squeal of delight.

‘Michael! I did not expect to find
you
here, although I was going to persuade Ralph to make a detour to see whether we could find you a little later. It will be
night, and fewer people will observe us.’

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Blanche, none too pleased to see her charge back again. ‘I hope the Bishop does not intend
to foist you on me a second time. If so, he can think again.’

‘He thinks you may try to strangle me,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘That is why he has charged Ralph to remain with me at all
times, to make sure that you do not.’

‘Shall I step outside for a few moments?’ Bartholomew heard Ralph mutter to Blanche. The physician was not entirely sure that
the words were spoken in jest.

‘Then why have you come?’ demanded Blanche of Tysilia. ‘If you seriously think I might throttle you, you should not be here
at all.’

‘She says she has left a doll,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘She claims she will not sleep until she has it. And believe me, I would
very much like her to sleep.’

‘A doll?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘You mean a child’s toy?’

‘It is a sorry-looking thing,’ said Blanche. ‘But she always has it with her in bed – at least, when she is sleeping. It is
usually ousted when she has other company.’

‘Three would be awfully crowded,’ explained Tysilia sincerely. ‘Especially if one of them was the size of Brother Michael.’
She eyed him up and down in a way that made even Bartholomew feel uncomfortable.

‘I can imagine,’ said Blanche dryly. ‘Your doll is in the window. I was planning to have it delivered to you tomorrow, along
with all your other possessions, so that you would not think of returning to me.’

‘I would not think of that,’ said Tysilia guilelessly. ‘I did not like living with you. You are ugly, and you drive away the
most handsome men with your sharp tongue. I will have a much happier life with my uncle.’

‘Fetch your doll,’ snapped Blanche, taking hold of the trout and ripping it apart as if dead fish were not the only things
she would like to dismember. Bartholomew thought de Lisle had been wise to remove the aggravating Tysilia
from the King’s kinswoman. Although Blanche doubtless knew perfectly well that Tysilia was her daughter, he imagined it would
be extremely difficult to develop maternal feelings for her.

Tysilia skipped across to a shelf near the window, and began to toss things this way and that as she searched. Meanwhile,
Ralph looked around him with interest, as though hoping to learn something he could use against Blanche for the benefit of
his Bishop. Bartholomew saw his gaze linger on a pile of documents that lay on a table, but since the steward could not read,
staring did him no good.

Michael edged as far as he could from the window where Tysilia was creating havoc among skeins of silk, packets of needles
and sundry other objects, and spoke to Blanche’s assembled household.

‘Do any of you recognise these items?’ he asked. He raised the cup so that everyone would be able to see it, and then produced
the book of hours. ‘Or this book?’

‘That cup is mine!’ exclaimed Blanche, standing up to snatch it back. ‘I always insist that my own vessels are used for masses
celebrated in my presence. I missed this two days ago – on Wednesday – and I wondered what had happened to it. I thought it
had been stolen.’

She fixed Tysilia with a hard stare, and crammed a large piece of fish into her mouth. Tysilia beamed back at her, and hugged
the doll she had finally retrieved. Blanche was right: it was a sorry thing with a painted head that had been chewed and a
grubby gown that needed washing.

Bartholomew recalled that Tysilia had been known to steal the property of others in the past, although she had not been very
good at hiding what she had taken and was invariably caught before she could profit from her crimes. It was entirely possible
that she had taken the cup. But then how had it come to be in the granary with William’s coins and the mysterious book of
hours? Had she given it to William, perhaps in return for a promise that he would take her with him when he fled? Tysilia
had not been happy with
Blanche, and might well have been seduced by a silver tongue that promised freedom in return for treasure. William had a
reputation for plots and intrigues, and was perhaps the kind of man to promise something he had no intention of delivering.