A Summer of Discontent

‘The monks should provide that twopence,’ John muttered bitterly. ‘Why should my parishioners pay, just because the priory refuses to allow them proper use of our parish church?’

‘But it is primarily the priory’s cathedral,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And it is the seat of the Bishop of Ely. Thomas de Lisle will not want to be falling over corpses each time he enters his own church, either.’

‘You make it sound as though we have dozens of them,’ said John accusingly. ‘There are only two. Prior Alan put Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘Why not store the others there, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

John explained patiently, ‘Since Glovere is a retainer of Lady Blanche he is technically not my parishioner, and I refused to find the twopence for him. Rather than pay himself, Alan made the Bone House available. But I could not avoid financing Chaloner and Haywarde.’

‘The River Ouse can be dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why do you think the deaths of these two men are anything more than tragic accidents?’

‘I do not, actually,’ admitted John. ‘The river is dangerous, and these fellows liked a drink. But there is a rumour that they killed themselves, and if that is true, then I cannot bury them in consecrated ground.’

‘God’s blood!’ swore Michael, backing away as John opened the door to the Church of St Mary. ‘This place smells almost as foul as Glovere in the Bone House.’

‘It is summer, Brother,’ said John. ‘Of course there will be some odour.’

‘No wonder you pay for the privilege of storing your dead here,’ said Michael, removing his pomander from his scrip and shoving it against his nose and mouth. ‘It is the only way you would ever persuade a priest to allow you to do it.’

The bodies lay in open coffins in the Lady Chapel, covered with grimy blankets that were liberally scattered with horse hairs. Under each coffin, Bartholomew saw that the floor had been stained by water dripping from the bodies; he had noted a similar phenomenon on the floor around Glovere. Since neither John nor Michael made a move to help, he went over to the first corpse. He presumed it was Chaloner, who he knew had died a couple of days after Glovere, because the face was blackened and there was a whitish mass in the eyes and mouth, indicating that flies had been at work. It would not be long before Chaloner had a cloud of insects buzzing around him, just as Glovere had done.

‘Why have you waited so long to bury this man?’ asked Bartholomew, beginning his examination.

‘He has no family to arrange matters,’ said John, as if that explained everything. ‘His wife died in childbirth some weeks ago.’

‘Then why does the parish not pay?’ demanded Michael. ‘It is not seemly to keep the dead above ground for so long.’

John looked resentful. ‘How can I bury them when I do not know where they might be laid to rest? I must know whether either or both are suicides or died by accident.’ He drew himself up to his full height and did his best to look pious. ‘I will not see anyone consigned to unconsecrated ground if I can help it.’

‘Better unconsecrated ground than no ground at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you can always exhume them later and rebury them in the churchyard, if you are uncertain.’

John glared at him. ‘A final resting place is just that. I do not hold with tearing men from their graves once they have been interred. That is why I brought you here, so that you can determine where they should go.’

Bartholomew looked at the pair of corpses, hoping that he would be able to deduce enough to allow the removal of the bodies from a public place. While the remains of executed criminals often adorned the gates of cities or were abandoned at gibbets for weeks on end, leaving them in a building that people were obliged to use regularly was a wholly different matter.

‘What happened to Chaloner?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew began his examination. ‘Was he drunk?’

‘He enjoyed an ale in the Lamb and left after sunset. The next time anyone saw him, it was the following day in the river. He was floating face-down in the water, opposite the Monks’ Hythe.’

‘Did he drink heavily?’ asked Michael.

John shrugged. ‘On occasion, when he had the money.’

Bartholomew listened while he worked. He saw that while the parish had stretched itself to provide a blanket, it had done little else. Chaloner appeared to be in exactly the same condition as when he had been pulled from the river, and no one had made any attempt to clean him. Mud still streaked his arms, and there was river weed caught in his hair and beard. No one had even washed his face and hands, and they were thick with dirt.