A Summer of Discontent

‘True,’ agreed de Lisle approvingly. ‘If Michael can prove that the man died in his cups, then there is no way Blanche or anyone else can substantiate this charge of murder.’

‘What about the man who died yesterday?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you quarrel with him, too?’

‘I had never heard of him before he was carried dripping to St Mary’s Church,’ said de Lisle. ‘I do not even recall his name. I have no idea what is happening here, but I do not like it at all.’

‘Will Haywarde,’ said Ralph. ‘He was a suicide, but you know how people let their imaginations run away with them. Mark my words, it will not be long before one of these silly monks puts two with two to get six.’

‘What about the theft from your house ten days ago?’ asked Michael of de Lisle. ‘Do you have any idea what happened there?’

De Lisle did not seem particularly interested. ‘The rumour is that the gypsies did that — the burglaries started in the city the day after they arrived, you see.’

‘If everyone is so convinced of their guilt, then why are they tolerated here?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why are they not driven away?’

‘Because we need them for the harvest,’ explained de Lisle. ‘They undertake the heaviest and least popular work, and it is in no one’s interests to send them away now. People will just have to lock their windows and doors, and be a little more careful until they have gone.’

‘What was stolen from you, exactly?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were any documents missing?’

De Lisle smiled wanly at him. ‘I know what you are thinking: the burglary was political, rather than a case of random theft. But, fortunately for me, you are wrong. I had a number of sensitive documents on my desk, but these were ignored. I lost a silver plate and a ring — things that an opportunistic burglar would snatch because they are saleable and easy to carry.’

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information.

‘You will prove me innocent of any involvement in these unfortunate deaths,’ instructed de Lisle when the monk did not reply. ‘And do it quickly. I cannot leave Ely until this is settled and I have business elsewhere that needs attending.’

Michael nodded. ‘Very well. I-’ But he was speaking to thin air. The Bishop had swung around and was stalking across the courtyard towards the cathedral, with his sycophants strewn out behind him as they hurried to catch up.

‘And this is the man to whom you have tied your ambitions?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He does not seem to be the kind of person who would remember favours done. In fact, I imagine he would expect loyalty, but then slit your throat when you have outlived your usefulness to him.’

‘You have not seen him in his best light,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He is a good man at heart. He was one of few bishops in the country who visited the sick during the Death, and he does pen a remarkable sermon.’

‘It occurs to me that he might be qualified to give one on his personal experience of murder,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I hope you know that he may not be innocent of this crime, Brother. He denies it, but so do most killers, and I do not see him offering any good reasons as to why he could not have killed this Glovere.’

‘That is what I must find out,’ said Michael, turning to steer Bartholomew towards the Prior’s house. ‘I do not imagine it will take me long. I shall inspect the corpses of these drowned men this afternoon, assuming they are still above ground, and will lay the matter to rest once and for all.’

‘I suppose you want me to go with you,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘To see what clues might be found on the bodies.’

‘No,’ said Michael, opening the door that led to the Prior’s private garden and pushing his friend inside. ‘I want to introduce you to Prior Alan, and then I want you to spend your few days here reading about fevers. That is why you came, after all.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘You do not need the help of a medical man?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I have watched you often enough to manage perfectly well alone.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I am coming with you.’

The monk gave a humourless smile. ‘Thank you, Matt. I only wish you were as forthcoming in all the murders I am obliged to investigate. But this is a simple matter, and I do not need you.’

‘You do not want me involved,’ said Bartholomew, trying to read what the monk was thinking. ‘You are as suspicious of de Lisle’s protestations of innocence as I am, and you think you will protect me by not allowing me to help.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘You travelled to Ely to indulge yourself in your unhealthy fascination with diseases, not to traipse around the city’s inns to learn how much these dead men had to drink before they stumbled into the river. You do your work and I shall do mine.’

‘I am coming with you,’ repeated Bartholomew, this time with determination. ‘You might need a good friend.’