A Summer of Discontent (28 page)

‘Why did he say that about Blanche? Has she overheard you and William talking?’

‘She may have done. He told me that Ely is a dangerous place at the moment, and he thought it would be more dangerous with
her in it.’

‘Why did he think that?’

‘He did not tell me,’ Tysilia whispered, her voice confidential now that she knew she was speaking about William’s secret
matter. ‘But he thinks there is a killer here,
in the monastery
! He said this killer will be watching me all the time, and that he has the power to look at my most secret thoughts.’ She
glanced around her fearfully. ‘That means he is watching me now.’

‘William was trying to frighten you into keeping quiet about what you discussed together,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The
killer is a vicious man who owns a knife, but he has no supernatural powers or ability to read minds.’

‘You do not know that for certain,’ she shot back.

‘Then tell me what William told you, and we may be able to expose this fiend and put an end to all the fear and suspicion,’
Bartholomew reasoned.

She smiled her vacant smile again, her dark eyes empty of intelligent thought. ‘He said the killer is in the monastery.’

‘What did he mean? That the culprit is a monk?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tysilia uncertainly. ‘Monks do live in monasteries, after all. But then, so do other people. I have seen
them myself – servants and tradesmen and visitors.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Blanche is a visitor at the monastery. And there are all manner of lay-brothers working in the
grounds and the kitchens.’

‘Oh, yes!’ agreed Tysilia happily. ‘I remember now. William did say that the killer could be just about anyone here. And he
said that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were not likeable men, and so someone relieved the world of them. That is why they
died: because no one liked them.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘William believes that someone is killing people just because they are unpopular?’

‘Yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘And because William is unpopular, someone will want to kill him, too. Everyone who is nasty is at risk.
That means that
I
am safe, of course.’

Blanche stormed up to Tysilia and Bartholomew and regarded them both with rank suspicion. ‘What have you been doing?’ she
demanded. ‘I hope you have not been romping in the cemetery again, Tysilia. I have already caught you doing that once, and
have explained that a graveyard is no place for that sort of thing.’

‘It was Julian’s idea,’ objected Tysilia indignantly. ‘He assured me that all the monks used the cemetery for their—’

‘Thank you, Tysilia,’ interrupted Blanche. ‘We do not need to know the details. Go and wait for me in the solar.
And leave my tapestry alone, if you please. You will ruin it again if you take a needle to it.’

‘I can sew,’ said Tysilia proudly, giving Bartholomew a bright grin before skipping away in the direction of the Outer Hostry.

‘I cannot leave her for long,’ said Blanche, looking after her. ‘Wretched woman! She is a dreadful liability, and I never
should have agreed to take her on. I was most shamefully tricked on that score – de Lisle again.’

‘I heard he gave her to you as a symbol of your last truce – by placing a member of his own household in your care, he is
demonstrating trust.’

Blanche gave a bitter laugh. ‘And when she becomes pregnant again – which is only a matter of time, given her uncontrollable
behaviour and undiscriminating tastes – de Lisle will claim that I have abused that trust. I should have known better than
to accept such terms from him. He pretended to be reluctant to part with her, but I suspect he was only too glad to be rid
of her.’

‘Probably.’ Bartholomew chewed his bottom lip, realising it was not wise to be agreeing with de Lisle’s enemies that he was
a devious schemer who might well use Tysilia as a weapon to inflict on his opponents. ‘But the truce you had is surely broken,
now that you have accused him of murder. Why does he not demand her back?’

Blanche gave a humourless smile. ‘Declining to accept his niece is his way of wreaking revenge upon my household. You may
have noticed that she is not pleasant to have around. But what was she doing with you? Did you catch her lying in wait for
that William again? I cannot imagine why she has taken a liking to him – he is old enough to be her father.’

‘Or her brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is who she claims he is.’

Blanche regarded him in astonishment. ‘They are not related! William is
my
cousin, actually.’

Bartholomew was certain that the claim of kinship was merely William’s clever way of ensuring that he gained
Tysilia’s willing services. Poor Tysilia was gullible and a little pathetic, and might well believe such a tale, no matter
how improbable. However, Tysilia was actually the Bishop’s illegitimate daughter, although few people, including Tysilia herself,
were aware of the fact. William’s claim might mean that he imagined
he
was de Lisle’s kinsman, too. And if that were true, it could explain why he had gone to some trouble to investigate whether
Blanche might have played a role in the murder for which his relative stood accused.

‘Tysilia has an unbreakable habit of securing a man at any place we visit,’ Blanche was saying, cutting across his thoughts.
‘She is like an eel, slipping out of windows and past guards to reach the objects of her lust. Keeping her childless is one
of the greatest challenges I have ever faced.’

‘How do you like Ely?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to steer the conversation around to the fact that he had seen Blanche in
the Mermaid Inn with the gypsies two days before.

Blanche looked around her disdainfully. ‘Ely is a far cry from Huntingdon, which is as fine a town as ever graced the face
of the Earth. But it has its good points, I suppose.’

‘Such as the taverns?’ asked Bartholomew probingly.

Blanche regarded him as though he were insane. ‘How would I know about
the taverns? I was thinking of the cathedral. Huntingdon does not have a cathedral.’

‘Have you actually been in any of the taverns? Some of them are comfortable places, and offer decent accommodation for travellers.’

‘I am sure they do,’ said Blanche with distaste. ‘And I can well imagine the kind of traveller who stays in them, too. I am
sure the bedclothes are crawling with vermin, while one would share the straw mattresses with rats. It may suit Tysilia, but
it would not do for me.’

‘The Mermaid has that reputation,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely for any reaction. ‘Although the Lamb is better.’

‘Well, I would not be caught in either,’ said Blanche firmly.
‘Staying here is bad enough, but it is better than sharing an inn with the common folk. Glovere was fond of the Lamb before
the Bishop murdered him. It just goes to show that my wariness of such places is justified.’

‘Tysilia seems uneasy in the priory,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to turn his attention to whether Blanche had heard any rumours
regarding the murders, since his clumsy questioning regarding her appearance at the Mermaid seemed unlikely to lead anywhere.
He considered asking her directly what she had been doing with the gypsies, but sensed that she would merely deny the incident
and end the conversation. And then, if she had been up to no good in dubious company, his revelation of the fact that he suspected
her might put him in line for a knife in the neck and a dip in the river.

‘She should be,’ said Blanche. ‘The Bishop is busily killing folk he does not like. He killed my servant first and then –
when he found he had a taste for murder – he dispatched the two peasants. And, since I am sure there cannot be any love lost
between him and his shameless niece, she should watch herself.’

‘I thought you only accused de Lisle of murdering your steward.’

‘I did, but then I heard that whoever killed Glovere had also dispatched Chaloner and Haywarde. You were paid by Father John
to determine the cause of death, so you should not need me to tell you that whoever killed Glovere killed the others, too.’

‘But de Lisle has no reason to kill these men,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘Does he not?’ asked Blanche smugly. She folded her arms and looked at him closely. ‘Tell me, have you ever looked at a person
you despise and wished there was something you could do to rid the world of him? Louts who steal? Men who beat their wives?
Women who claim they attended the University of Life? Others with spiteful tongues?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the times
when greedy and selfish acts had damaged or destroyed the lives and happiness of people he had liked.

‘Well, so has de Lisle. Only whereas the rest of us pray to God to punish the wicked, he imagines he
is
God and that he has the right to punish offenders himself.’

‘I do not think—’ began Bartholomew.

Blanche stopped him. ‘You and that Brother Michael can do all you like to prove de Lisle innocent, but you will fail. And
you should consider your next move very carefully, because you do not want to be associated with the likes of
him
when the good folk of Ely avenge themselves for the unjust and wicked murders of its citizens.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by his conversation with Blanche. He did not know what to think of William’s suppositions as revealed
by Tysilia: that there was a killer in the priory; that Blanche was involved in something untoward; and that he was Tysilia’s
brother. But there was nothing Bartholomew could do about it for a while, because Michael had already arranged to spend the
morning reviewing various scraps of evidence in the reluctant company of the other two men charged with uncovering the truth
behind the deaths: the hypochondriacal Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield and the oafish Canon of Lincoln.

Bartholomew worked in the library for a while, but the questions about the killings that rattled around in his mind would
not be ignored, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the collection of writings on marsh fever. He left the library,
and wandered the grounds near the Steeple Gate, until Michael emerged from his meeting exasperated by Stretton’s stupidity
and disheartened by Northburgh’s lack of interest in anything except his health. As Bartholomew told the monk about his encounter
with Tysilia, a bell started to ring, announcing that a meal was about to be served. Michael immediately headed for the refectory.

‘But breakfast was not long ago,’ Bartholomew
complained, staring after him. ‘And it is only two hours until the midday meal.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael, turning to haul him along. ‘Which is why we need a little something now, to sustain us for the rest
of the morning. And when we have done that we will walk up the river, to see whether we can find the place where those three
men were murdered.’

He pushed open the door to the spacious decadence of the monks’ refectory, with its polished wooden floors and beautiful oak
tables, each one laden with freshly baked bread, dishes of fruit and slabs of creamy cheese.

‘Has anyone seen William yet?’ asked Michael, as the priory’s high-ranking monks took their seats and began grabbing the food
that was laid out in front of them. No one bothered to waste energy in speaking when there was eating to be done, and shaken
heads were the only response. As earlier, William’s seat was empty, but Henry mentioned that the hosteller often ate alone,
and that he did not always want a meal halfway through the morning anyway. His voice held a note of censure that was directed
towards the obese Thomas, but the sub-prior did not even glance up from his trough-sized trencher as he gorged himself on
bread and honey, his massive flanks spilling over the sides of his specially constructed chair.

In the main body of the refectory the other monks followed the gluttonous example set by their seniors, and Bartholomew could
see that many of them were well on their way to matching the paunches, bulges and double chins that abounded on the high table.
However, the back of the hall contained the novices – Julian sat with Welles and the lad Bartholomew recalled was named Bukton
– who seemed less inclined towards unbridled greed. In fact, Bartholomew thought they seemed depressed and listless, and they
picked at their food in a way that he did not think was healthy in lads who should have had good appetites. From the uneasy
glances they shot at the high table, the physician supposed that one of the priory officers had upset them in some way.

Julian ignored his meal, and instead fiddled lovingly with a long, sharp knife, which seemed far too ornate and dangerous
for use at the dinner table. Bartholomew wondered why Prior Alan allowed him to possess such an object. Welles, however, was
using a lengthy masonry nail to spear the food he wanted, so Bartholomew concluded that the Prior was not too fussy about
his novices’ choice of dining equipment.

‘I suppose William may be buying eels,’ suggested Robert, rather plaintively. Although he and William openly detested each
other, it seemed that when his protagonist was away, the almoner missed him. ‘He always buys eels on a Thursday – it is market
day.’

‘But Mackerell also seems to be missing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I understand the priory obtains most of its eels from him.’

‘Henry purchases fish from Mackerell, too,’ said Robert, shooting an unpleasant glance at the infirmarian. ‘He chooses nasty,
evil-looking specimens that no normal man would eat.’

‘I do not
eat
them either,’ said Henry indignantly, ruffled by the almoner’s comments. ‘Some I dry and grind to a powder, while others
contain valuable oils that are excellent for certain skin conditions. And I will need more of them than ever in the next few
days: Bishop Northburgh has charged me with finding a cure for his wrinkled skin. He wants to look young again.’

‘You will not succeed,’ warned Bartholomew, supposing he should not be surprised that a man like Henry – supremely confident
in his own skill and abilities – should consider himself equal to such a task. ‘It is natural for a man to look like a walnut
at ninety years of age.’