A Summer of Discontent

Michael’s eyes were large and round in the dim light from the lamp. ‘I did not say that.’ He gave a huge sigh. ‘Damn it all, Matt! I was hoping this would be a straightforward case of Glovere taking a tumble into the river, and Blanche using the death to discredit her enemy. Now we are faced with a cunning killer. I wish we had never left Cambridge!’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

There was nothing more they could do in the Bone House, so Bartholomew re-dressed Glovere, and covered him again with the piece of sacking. Michael watched him, now oblivious to the flies that formed a thick cloud in the air around his head as he thought about the implications of their findings. Then they walked out into the golden light of a summer evening. The bells were ringing for vespers, and the sounds of people walking and riding along the Heyrow on the other side of the priory wall were welcome reminders of normal life.

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, as he watched the monk lock the Bone House door. He could not imagine why the monks felt the need for such security, when no one in his right mind would have willingly entered the grim little house of the dead.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Michael gloomily. ‘What do you recommend? Shall I visit de Lisle and ask to see any sharp knives he might own? Shall I enquire whether he knows that a man can be dispatched with a small jab to the neck or that there are ways of killing a man that all but defy detection?’

‘Not if you do not want to find yourself with a cut neck in the river,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘I would concentrate on Glovere, if I were you. It seems that de Lisle was not the only person who did not like him. Perhaps the relatives of the woman who committed suicide killed him.’

‘True,’ said Michael, cheering up a little. ‘I shall spend a few hours in the taverns tonight, asking questions of the local folk, and we shall see where that leads us. And there are also the gypsies to consider. Richard de Leycestre, who sidled up to us with his malicious tales when we arrived in Ely, seemed to think that they, and not de Lisle, were to blame for Glovere’s death.’

‘Only because the travellers are outsiders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to pick on strangers and hold them responsible for inexplicable happenings.’

Michael studied him with an amused expression. ‘You seem very defensive of these people, Matt. It would not be because you are stricken by the charms of Mistress Eulalia, would it?’

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘It is because I do not like the way crowds are so willing to turn on people who cannot protect themselves. Leycestre said the gypsies were responsible for the burglaries, too, but he had no evidence.’

‘No evidence other than the fact that the burglaries started the moment the gypsies arrived in the city,’ said Michael. ‘It seems that Glovere died a few days later. Perhaps he saw them committing their thefts and was killed to ensure his silence. That trick with the knife in the neck is the kind of thing a gypsy might know.’

‘It is the kind of thing anyone might know. Soldiers, butchers, courtiers, medical men, scholars who might have read it — anyone, really.’

‘Well, our enquiries will tell us whether your faith in these gypsies is justified,’ said Michael, unruffled by his friend’s annoyance. ‘If they are guilty, I will find out.’

Suddenly, the serene stillness of the priory was shattered by the sound of running footsteps. Monks emerged from all sorts of nooks and crannies, aiming for the Steeple Gate. Robert the almoner was there, jostling the bob-haired William and the surly Julian to reach it first, the pending office of vespers clearly forgotten. There was an unseemly tussle for the handle, during which Robert used the bulge of his stomach to force his rivals out of the way. Eventually, he had cleared sufficient space to drag open the door and turn an ingratiating smile on the people who waited on the other side.

Michael chuckled softly as the almoner effected a sweeping bow that was so deep he almost toppled. Hosteller William had managed to elbow his way through the crowd of grovelling monastics to stand next to him; his bow was less deep but far more elegant than Robert’s. Bartholomew and Michael stood well back as a cavalcade entered the priory grounds, content to watch those monks who enjoyed indulging in servile behaviour take reins from ungrateful courtiers and offer haughty maids-in-waiting cool cups of wine. That high-ranking clerics like Robert and William were prepared to submit themselves to such indignities told its own story: here was Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue, arriving in Ely to see the Bishop convicted of the murder of their steward.