A Summer of Discontent (58 page)

‘That is not necessary,’ said Leycestre to Michael, shoving his nephew away from the grille and shooting him an angry
glance. ‘We only ask one favour: speak to Alan on our behalf. We can put up with the rats, if you will do that.’

Bartholomew took the torch from Michael and went to investigate. Clymme’s request was not difficult to grant, and the prison
was grim enough, without having to contend with the sound of rodents scuttling around. The door of the third cell was not
locked, so Bartholomew pushed it open, then held up the torch to illuminate the inside. He gasped in astonishment at what
he saw.

The missing Mackerell was slumped against the wall, while a large brown rat hovered proprietarily in the background. When
Bartholomew stepped forward it scampered away, but did not go far. The physician crouched down to touch the wound in the fish-man’s
neck. It had bled a little, and the side of his face was bruised, as if he had been held down hard. The body, however, was
fresh, and Bartholomew concluded that Mackerell had been dead for a few hours at the most. He strongly suspected that the
killer had dispensed with Mackerell at the same time as he had dealt with Symon.

‘I will fetch a stretcher and arrange for him to be taken to the church,’ said Cynric. He shot an arch expression at Michael.
‘Do not worry about directions – I know where everything is. I am growing quite used to recovering the bodies of murder victims
in Ely.’

‘Did you hear this nocturnal visitor unlock
just
Symon’s door?’ the monk asked Leycestre, ignoring Cynric’s facetiousness. ‘Or could he have opened the third cell, too?’

‘I could not tell,’ said Leycestre. ‘I thought I heard the scrape of a key in the lock once, but we were shouting to gain
his attention and we were not listening to what he was doing.’

‘I thought I heard Symon yell,’ added Clymme. ‘It happened just a few moments before the visitor left. It sounded frightened,
as if he had suddenly realised that something terrible was about to occur.’

‘I suspect Symon was dead before that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably entered the cell and went about his
business before Symon could fight him off. The shout you heard was probably Mackerell, when he realised that the Prior’s
cells were not so safe after all.’

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Bartholomew, as they left the oppressive dampness of the cells and stepped into the bright sunshine
outside. He blinked at the sudden brilliance, and felt his eyes water.

Michael carefully locked the door behind him and shook it vigorously. ‘Leycestre and his nephews should be safe in there.
At least I hope so.’

‘They are safe anyway. The killer is not interested in them. They are not nasty enough.’

Michael gazed at him, and then nodded slowly. ‘I had forgotten that our killer only removes people who are unpleasant. All
three townsmen were fellows whom the town was glad to be rid of; Robert was a thief who forced pilgrims to pay for the privilege
of speaking to St Etheldreda; Thomas was a glutton who bullied the novices; and Symon was an indolent fraud who did harm to
our priceless books.’

‘And Mackerell had a reputation for stealing and lying,’ said Bartholomew, looking away across the undulating ruins of the
castle and the vineyards beyond. ‘But this is beginning to make sense, and I can see at least some answers – such as the identity
of the killer.’

Michael took his arm and they went to sit together on an ancient stone that had once acted as a lintel over the door of one
of the fortress’s finest chambers. It was now a moss-covered relic, half buried in grass and split down the middle, too heavy
and damaged to be of use for building. A small oak tree offered welcome shade. Bartholomew gazed down at the moving patterns
of leaves and sunlight that played and danced around his feet.

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Who? Prior Alan, because he has completed a beautiful cathedral and does not want it sullied by the
presence of evil men? My Bishop, so that no one will think he killed Glovere? Blanche, because she is a lady and
no one believes that a lady could set fire to a house, let alone commit murder? Henry, because he has been corrupted by that
horrible Julian? Tysilia, because she does not like nasty people?’

‘Julian,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Because
he
does not like people with the capacity to be nastier than him.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘We have witnesses to confirm that he was alone with Thomas in the hospital, and now with Symon in
the prison. He therefore had the opportunity to commit those two crimes. And then there is his penchant for sharp implements.
We almost arrested him yesterday. I wish to God we had – then Symon would still be alive. But Henry will be distressed to
learn that all his goodness has failed to save the boy from himself.’

Bartholomew stared at him, and the scraps of information and disconnected facts that swirled around in his mind started to
snap into place. ‘No!’ he exclaimed vigorously. ‘We are quite wrong. That is what we are
supposed
to think.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael impatiently. ‘We have suspected Julian from the start. Why is he not guilty all of a sudden?’

‘The killer is a clever man,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts racing ahead of him. ‘Julian is cunning and inventive, but he
does not possess a brilliant mind – not like our murderer.’

‘You think it is Alan, then?’ asked Michael. ‘People say he has one of the most brilliant minds the priory has ever known.
And he, like Julian, had time alone in the infirmary when Thomas was killed. Also he has his own copy of every key in the
monastery – prison, back gate and so on.’

‘Not Alan, either.’

Michael’s eyes gleamed as he mulled over the remaining possibilities. ‘There is one person left whom we have virtually ignored
in our reckoning, but he also had the opportunity to kill all the victims. He is lowly and unimportant enough for us to have
overlooked him completely.’

Bartholomew stared at him, thinking this description did
not match his prime suspect at all. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

‘Welles,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘The boy with the masonry nail. You said yourself that it was a long, thin blade
that killed those men – such as a nail used by builders and left lying around the cathedral. I have seen him with one several
times – and he was present when that paring knife went missing, then reappeared. Everyone blamed Julian, but perhaps we were
all wrong.’

‘I was not thinking about Welles. I was thinking of Henry.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Henry? But he is a physician, dedicated to healing people.’

‘Physicians are as capable of murder as anyone else.’

‘Henry is a good man,’ objected Michael firmly. ‘I have told you this before. Think about the patience and understanding he
has shown Julian. The man is a saint: if Henry was the killer, Julian would have been dead a long time ago. Henry is also
an intensely moral man. This killer has no morals at all.’

‘He does,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At least, morals as he sees them. He thinks he is doing good, and does not see himself as
wicked or criminal. That is what makes him so dangerous. He is probably one of those people who thinks God is telling him
what to do. They are the worst, because they cannot be made to see that they are wrong.’

‘Henry is not a fanatic,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just a physician dedicated to healing the sick. You should appreciate
that, Matt. It is what you do.’

‘Clues have been staring us in the face all along, but we have ignored them,’ Bartholomew went on, increasingly convinced
by his own argument. ‘First, we agreed when we inspected Glovere’s body that the killer had a certain knowledge of anatomy.
Henry is a physician.’

‘That is not evidence,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is coincidence.’

‘Then consider the death of Guido. He was poisoned, probably with mercurial salts. At first Eulalia blamed me, because he
drank the wine from my medicine bag, but then
she thought the poison was smeared on the coins de Lisle gave him.’

‘We know Ralph did that,’ objected Michael. ‘And he has been executed for it.’

‘But, on reflection, I think Ralph did no such thing. He was not stupid. He knew that Guido would tell the rest of the clan
what de Lisle wanted him to do, so killing him would be futile. And they planned to disappear anyway, so de Lisle had nothing
to worry about. Eulalia was right the first time: the poison came from my wineskin.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Are you now accusing yourself?’

‘I gave Henry my own wine to make Ynys a tonic. And yesterday he refilled the wineskin for me. He dosed it with poison, because
I mentioned to him that
you
were in the habit of drinking it. It was not Guido he wanted to kill: it was you.’

‘Me?’ asked Michael, startled and rather offended. ‘What have I done wrong? I am not unpleasant and disliked by everyone.’

‘But you are on his trail and likely to expose him as a murderer. And you are a large man who is used to sudden ambushes.
Henry is quick and strong, but he could not hope to kill you in the way he has dispatched the others. He would never be able
to wrest you to the ground and kneel on your head while he cut the back of your neck.’

‘But what about you?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘If he killed me, then you would take up the investigation in my stead.’

‘Henry knows he can kill me in the same way as he has killed the others. He almost succeeded in the Bone House, remember?
However, that did not stop him from considering alternative methods, too.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘He gave me his hemp tonic and watched its effects very carefully. It was at the same time that he refilled my wineskin.
When I turned from putting it in my bag, he was holding a knife – to chop garlic.’

‘So? That sounds innocent enough to me.’

‘No physician ever chops garlic for remedies: we crush it with a pestle. I think he was seriously considering whether to kill
me then, when I was sluggish from the hemp.’

‘And he offered you more hemp later,’ mused Michael. ‘I declined it on your behalf.’

‘He has also been dosing Northburgh and Stretton,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Hemp produces a feeling of well-being, so Henry provided
them with as much as they wanted, so that they would not bother to investigate the murders
he
committed. He claimed Northburgh was already addicted to hemp, but Northburgh did not seem affected by it when he first arrived
in Ely.’

‘Then why did Henry not give me hemp, too?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows in rank scepticism. ‘I was also investigating.’

‘Because he knew I would have noticed any hemp-induced changes in your behaviour and would have looked into it. He might have
managed to slip you a dose or two, but not enough to achieve the desired result.’

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘There is a flaw in your logic, Matt. You say Henry gave you poisoned wine to kill me, but
then you claim that he considered killing you with a knife instead of chopping his garlic. The wine would not reach me if
you were dead.’

‘I imagine that was what stayed his hand.’

‘If he poisoned the wine, I suppose you think he poisoned Thomas, too,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Bukton claimed that Thomas had
been poisoned when he first fell ill.’

‘No, Thomas really did have a seizure. He had been on the verge of confessing something dreadful when he was stricken. But
worse, as far as Henry was concerned, Thomas had been stealing the food from the old men. That is what sealed
his
fate.’

‘But Henry was very distressed when Thomas died,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And do not forget he was asleep when that particular
murder took place. We proved that beyond
the shadow of a doubt – with drool, if you recall.’

Bartholomew saw his argument take a serious knock. ‘Perhaps we were mistaken about that,’ he said lamely. ‘But, if I am right,
then Henry’s grief, bad dreams and pallor over the following days were not because he had let a killer make an end of Thomas
– they were signs of a guilty conscience.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael, determined that his friend was wrong. ‘Thomas was murdered in the infirmary the morning
after
Henry had spent a good portion of the night alone with him. Why would Henry kill the man during the day, when it would have
been far safer and easier to do so during the night? Also, old Roger saw him sleeping when the cloaked intruder was prowling
around.’

It was a valid point, and Bartholomew considered it for a moment. ‘Whoever killed Thomas left the weapon behind – which had
not happened before. I said at the time that someone might have been mimicking the killer’s methods, and that may still be
true. Perhaps Henry did not kill Thomas, but I am fairly sure he killed the others.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘And what would his motive be, pray?’

‘The other victims were evil men who caused innocent people distress. As you have said many times, Henry is a man imbued with
great compassion, and he looked around him and saw that wicked people were doing whatever they liked while God and His saints
slept. He said as much when we caught Symon and his associates stealing the priory’s treasure. Remember? He talked about the
evil in the world, and how he was disgusted by it all. He decided to redress the balance.’

Michael remained dubious. ‘In the past, you have often concocted unlikely solutions to various crimes, and I invariably dismiss
them and later look foolish when it transpires that you were right. So, I do not want to abandon your theory completely. However,
I must say that Henry is not only a good man, he is my friend. I have never known him
do a selfish or an unkind thing, and this accusation of murder is so implausible that it is ludicrous.’

Bartholomew was well aware that the evidence he had presented was circumstantial, at best, but he was certain he was right.
He pressed on with his argument. ‘Then think about Symon’s death. The librarian would not have been in a deep sleep – he had
just been arrested, and no one sees time in prison as an opportunity for a good night’s rest. He would have been frightened
and wakeful. Clymme said he heard mass being said; that involves things being eaten and drunk.’