A Summer of Discontent

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He pointed to the wreckage of smashed scaffolding, where the body of a monk swung slowly from side to side. A rope had caught around Henry’s neck, suspending him in midair a long way from the ground. His hands hung limply at his sides, and the awkward angle of his head indicated that his neck was broken. Henry was dead, and there was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or the novices could do about it.

‘Henry has hanged himself,’ Bartholomew repeated softly.

Epilogue

‘That was one of the least pleasant cases I have ever worked on,’ said Michael two days later, as he and Bartholomew sat quietly together near St Etheldreda’s tomb in the cathedral. ‘I felt no sympathy whatsoever for the victims, and a great admiration for the killer.’

‘Even after you discovered he was a murderer?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael nodded. ‘I have known Henry for years, and have always respected and liked him. I am not surprised young men like Welles and Bukton were prepared to do all they could to save him.’

‘They knew he would have hanged, had you caught him.’

‘He would not,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Alan would not have permitted that, especially if you had provided evidence that hemp had damaged his mind. He would have been sent away from Ely, though, and would not have been allowed near an infirmary again. But how did he die? Could you tell, when you examined the body?’

‘The rope broke his neck. He died instantly.’

‘That is a mercy,’ said Michael. He stood, and began to walk out of the cathedral, pausing for a moment to glance at the ruin of the north-west transept. ‘I shall think of him every time I come here. His sudden death means that he did not have time to make a confession, and, according to Roger, he always allowed the men he killed to repent.’

‘That was good of him.’

Michael sighed, turning his flabby white face to the warmth of the sun as they left the cathedral and walked through the cloisters towards the Black Hostry. ‘You knew Henry for only a few days, so I cannot expect you to understand. He was a good man. Welles, Roger and the others are right.’

‘I suppose his pre-stabbing ritual partly accounts for the bruises on the victims’ faces,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I assumed the killer was holding them to cut their necks, but he was also allowing them to make a final confession. I cannot imagine what was going through his mind at that point.’

‘Nor me,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Roger revealed that he and Ynys helped Henry kill Chaloner and Haywarde. Then Henry took the bodies to the river to get rid of them.’

‘They died late at night, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After they left the Lamb. What were two old men and Henry doing out and about at that hour?’

Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Patients come to you at all hours of the day and night, and Henry’s were no different. Also, remember that these were selfish men, who thought nothing of waking a physician just because they happened to feel the need of one. One came to the infirmary with a sore thumb and the other an aching knee, apparently — both ailments that would have kept until a more convenient hour.’

‘And so Henry copied Ralph’s murder of Glovere by putting the bodies in the river? He, like Ralph, hoped to pass the murders off as suicides?’

‘Yes. When Mackerell came to sell Henry fish, Roger asked him how and where to dispose of corpses in the river. This resulted in Mackerell assuming that Roger — not Henry — was the killer.’

‘That explains why Mackerell was afraid,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He probably wanted to tell you what he knew, but suspected that you would not believe that a frail old man like Roger had killed strong and fit men like Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘I would not have done,’ said Michael. ‘And neither did Mackerell, at first. Then he jumped to the conclusion that Roger was possessed by water-spirits, who have the strength to do whatever they like.’

‘I suppose Mackerell thought Roger — and the water-spirits — would be unlikely to hunt for him in the Prior’s prison, and so he asked Henry to lock him in. That was what Mackerell was doing when Symon spotted him in the monastery grounds.’

‘Henry did as Mackerell asked, then murdered him at the same time as he killed Symon. Mackerell called out in terror when he realised that he had gone for help to the one person he should not have done. And that was the end of him.’

‘What will happen to the old men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Roger and Ynys?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael heavily. ‘When Alan tried to speak to them, they went back to pretending they were blind, deaf and senile. He has decided to allow them to live out the rest of their lives in the infirmary. Henry did most of the killing, and I do not think they will resume where he has left off.’