A Summer of Discontent (18 page)

‘I will have a word with him,’ said Alan nervously. ‘Doubtless he was playing games with us when he claimed
he had finished with the matter. Northburgh is noted for his sense of humour.’

Michael snorted with laughter. ‘That is true! He is noted for being completely without one.’

‘It does not matter, actually,’ said Blanche smugly. ‘I have no need of your ailing Bishop to investigate my accusation. As
I told you, I invited Canon Stretton to act on my behalf.’ She turned to the hulking figure who stood uncertainly to one side,
regarding the proceedings with a puzzled expression on his thick features.

‘Who, me?’ asked the burly churchman, looking around him as though there might be another Canon Stretton present.

‘Yes,’ said Blanche impatiently. ‘My kinsmen, the King and the Black Prince, recommended you to me. They say you are tenacious
and that you will be a bishop one day.’

‘I will, I expect,’ said Stretton carelessly, as if he were talking about eating dinner or walking to church. ‘But, at the
moment, I am here. Ready to service you.’

Michael released a loud and wholly inappropriate snigger that caused Alan and de Lisle to stare curiously in the direction
of the buttress.

‘Right,’ said Blanche, regarding Stretton uneasily. ‘Then you had better begin.’

The canon turned to de Lisle, towering over the tall Bishop. Hairy hands protruded from sleeves that were too short, and Bartholomew
noted that his knuckles were grazed, as though he had been brawling. His eyes were almost invisible under the thick ridge
that spanned his forehead, and he had the kind of nose that had been broken so many times that it was barely nose-shaped at
all.

‘So, Ely,’ Stretton said, looking de Lisle up and down in much the same way that Northburgh had done. ‘Did you kill Lady Blanche’s
servant?’

‘No,’ replied de Lisle shortly. ‘I have already said that I did not.’

Stretton turned to Blanche and spread his hands. ‘It seems Ely did not—’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Blanche furiously. ‘This will just
not
do! You do not merely ask the culprit if he has committed the crime and then accept his answer without demur.’

‘You do not?’ asked Stretton, puzzled. ‘What more do you want me to do?’

‘I thought you would know!’ cried Blanche, becoming exasperated. ‘You are supposed to be an experienced investigator, who
always uncovers the truth.’

‘He always uncovers the “truth” his clients want,’ muttered Michael. ‘That is why the Black Prince and King Edward like him
so much.’

‘You must examine witnesses and you must look at the body of the victim,’ Blanche explained to the confused cleric. ‘And then
you must produce evidence to prove de Lisle’s guilt.’

‘Very well, if that is what you want,’ mumbled Stretton reluctantly. ‘I suppose I can do that. Who are the witnesses, and
what will I see if I examine this body?’

Blanche’s sigh of despair must have been audible all over the priory. ‘That is for
you
to determine. I should have known better than to appoint a cleric to help uncover the truth!’

With a glower at her hapless agent, she hitched up her skirts a final time, then turned to stride back to the Outer Hostry,
setting such a cracking pace that her retinue were obliged to run and skip to keep up with her. Bartholomew had expected that
de Lisle would be delighted at the outcome of the ‘investigations’, but instead he was frowning anxiously.

‘This is hopeless!’ he said, more to himself than to the circle of monks who had gathered around him. ‘Any evidence uncovered
by the likes of Stretton
or
Northburgh will be questionable to say the least. Nothing they say or do is likely prove my innocence, and this charge may
hang over me for the rest of my life. Michael is my only hope.’

‘He is right,’ said Michael soberly, turning to Bartholomew. ‘No one will believe any conclusions reached by that pair,
and having an unresolved charge of murder clinging to him will be almost as bad for de Lisle as being found guilty. We had
better hurry up and see what we can learn from this fisherman in the Mermaid.’

Because Michael wanted to reach the Mermaid Inn as soon as possible, he and Bartholomew took the shorter route through the
priory grounds to reach the wharfs. To one side, the ruins of an ancient castle poked through the long grass of the meadow
like broken teeth, while mysterious bumps and humps in the turf told of a building once fine enough for kings to sleep in,
but that had been destroyed after some forgotten war two centuries previously and subsequently plundered for stone by townsfolk
and priory alike.

Near the castle ruins neat rows marked the monks’ vineyard, where bunches of small, white grapes ripened and baked under the
summer sun. The vines were not the healthiest specimens that Bartholomew had ever seen, and he supposed that the stony soil
and west-facing slopes were responsible. The wine served with the meal the previous evening had been made from the priory’s
grapes, and it had been a sour brew that was dry enough to be unpleasant. He had learned from Hosteller William that the south-facing
slopes of the Bishop’s vineyards, a short distance away, produced a much sweeter and more palatable vintage.

They walked past a huge barn, where two lay-brothers were accepting the tithes that were owed by the farmers who rented the
surrounding fields. The barn was already bulging at the seams, and Bartholomew wondered how the Prior could justify taking
such large tributes when he obviously had plenty to spare. The barn was vast, but even so, the lay-brothers were having difficulty
in finding space for the bags of wheat they were accepting from one thin, shabbily dressed man.

Near the barn was a small gate set into a sturdy wall. It was locked, but Michael had brought the key. He opened
it, then locked it behind him. Bartholomew was not surprised that the monks felt the need for security, given the hostility
of some of their tenants. And he was not surprised that Leycestre and men like him felt they had a valid grievance against
the priory when it was stuffing its overfilled barns with grain that its farmers could ill afford to give.

The gate brought them out into Broad Lane, a spacious street that ran along the rear boundary of the monastery precincts.
Several alleys lay at right angles to it, all of them leading towards the river and the hythes. Michael selected Seggewyk
Lane, and Bartholomew found himself passing the grand homes of merchants and an assortment of warehouses for storing goods
that had been brought to the city by river. In Cambridge, the hythes were seedy and populated by the town’s poor, who were
obliged to live near their place of work. In Ely, the hythes were an exclusive area, inhabited by the wealthy. The waterfront
itself was wide and spacious, and a far cry from the scrubby grass and muddy footpaths that characterised the riverside at
Cambridge.

The river that passed through Ely was wide and green, with a bottom fringed with weeds that waved and undulated in the current.
The bank had been strengthened against flood by a stone pier, which ran the whole length of the river between Seggewyk Lane
and Water Side. Sturdy bollards provided secure anchorage for the flat-bottomed barges that made their way through the shifting
waterways of the Fens to the inland port. Jetties jutted into the river, like fingers, and a number had small boats moored
alongside. One or two looked unseaworthy, but most were in good condition, and their owners obviously made a good living by
transporting goods to and from Ely.

Flex Lane, Baldock Lane and Water Side converged to form a small square, which was kept neat, clean and clear of clutter,
and was known as the Quay. It provided a spot where bargemen could meet with merchants and haggle over prices, and where samples
of goods could be unloaded
for critical inspection. Some good-natured shouting could be heard at one end of the Quay, as a barge laden with peat faggots
and bundles of sedge prepared to get under way, while a group of bantering apprentices lugged caskets of spice towards one
of the warehouses at the other end.

The eastern bank of the river was marshland and meadow, and a few straggly sheep grazed among the rushes. A swan glided majestically
back and forth, the white of its feathers almost dazzling in the sunlight. It was watched with hungry eyes by a group of barefooted
boys. Bartholomew hoped none of them would be rash enough to kill it and take it home to feed his family: swans were the property
of the King, and the King was very jealous of the things that were his. It was not unknown for children to be hanged for stealing
game.

‘What did you think of Barbour yesterday?’ asked Michael, as they walked towards a low-roofed house with a swinging sign that
proclaimed it as the Mermaid Inn. It had been dark the first night they had visited it, and Bartholomew had not been able
to examine the building or the sign properly. He did so now, noting the crumbling plaster and the dark patches of rot in the
thatch. The mermaid painted on the sign was a lusty-looking wench with a scaly tail, whose leering presence above the door
Bartholomew felt was more a deterrent than welcoming.

‘I would not like to witness Barbour bleeding someone,’ he replied. ‘He uses his cooking knives to perform the operation,
and it sounds as though spurting blood is commonplace. It is supposed to drip or ooze, not spray out like a fountain.’

‘I meant what did you think about what he told us?’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I am not interested in an analysis of his surgical
skills.’

‘He told us nothing we did not already know or guess,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no obvious connection between the three
men; no one liked them; and they all enjoyed a drink in his tavern before someone decided they should not
be allowed to waste any more good beer.’

‘Do you think he was holding anything back?’ asked Michael. ‘You told me the Fenfolk would not be forthcoming with what they
know, and that I might not be able to gather enough information to identify the killer. Was Barbour holding back on us?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I had the impression that he wanted to provide you with a juicy snippet of information,
but that he had nothing to tell.’

‘That is what I thought. Of course, we may both be wrong. But we know for certain that all three men spent their last night
at the Lamb, and that whoever killed them was not stupid enough to be seen by witnesses. This is a small town, and if the
killer had been lingering outside, someone would have commented on it to Barbour. And I think Barbour would have told us.’

‘So, we can conclude that the killer was careful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His methods are precise, and he probably planned each
murder carefully.’

‘But how could he have known that his prey would be obliging enough to walk home alone after dark?’

‘I imagine because they were in the habit of doing so,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And we are assuming that the killer only stalked
his victims once. Perhaps he did so on several occasions, but was always thwarted by something.’

‘I suppose you could be right,’ conceded Michael reluctantly.

‘The wounds on his victims’ necks are very small,’ Bartholomew went on thoughtfully. ‘They were not made by a knife with a
wide blade, but with one that was thin and long.’

‘Are you sure it was a knife?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it have been something else? A nail or some other sharp implement?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A nail would be about the right size, especially a masonry nail.’

‘What is the difference between a masonry nail and a
normal nail?’ asked Michael a little testily, considering it an irrelevant detail.

‘The shafts of nails driven into stones tend to be oval, rather than round. I suppose it makes them easier to hammer into
hard surfaces. Given that the church of Holy Cross is currently under construction, and that the octagon and Lady Chapel in
the cathedral are barely finished, there must be a number of them lying around.’

‘We should question any masons we come across, then,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps our answer to these deaths will be as simple
as that: a mason with a grudge against the city, who likes to spend his spare time randomly selecting townsmen to murder in
his peculiar fashion.’

Instead of entering the Mermaid, Michael walked to the edge of the river and gazed across to the marshes on the other side.
Bartholomew stood with him, staring down into the murky depths of the water. Michael pointed to the pier that was nearest
to them, which stood where the river curved.

‘That is the Monks’ Hythe, where all three bodies were found. You can see that the water is deeper there, but that the current
is sluggish. It is common knowledge that anyone falling into the river upstream will fetch up here sooner or later.’

‘Then perhaps these men were murdered elsewhere, and simply floated down this way,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We shall have to take
a walk, to see what we can find.’

‘But not today,’ said Michael, squinting up at the bright sun. ‘It is too hot. We shall do it tomorrow, first thing in the
morning. Or, better still, you can do it, while I stay here and question more people. You may enjoy paddling around in mud
and traipsing through undergrowth in the heat of day, but I certainly do not.’

Michael pushed open the door of the Mermaid Inn and entered. The inside should have been cool, away from the morning sun,
especially given that all the window shutters
were sealed, thus allowing no warm air inside. But instead it was stuffy. A warm, sickly smell of stale grease mixed with
the sharper tang of spilt beer. A number of men were being served by a filthy pot-boy, who constantly scrubbed his running
nose on the back of his hand. Bartholomew thought he would rather go hungry than eat in the Mermaid. Apparently, Michael felt
the same, because he ordered two small goblets of beer and no food.

‘I do not like debilis cervisia,’ Michael muttered to his friend as the beer arrived. ‘It is virtually the cheapest ale money
can buy, and you might as well be drinking water. It could be worse, I suppose: Ely also produces a brew called “skegman”,
but the priory usually issues that to its scullions or gives it as alms to the poor. No one would drink it if there was a
choice.’