A Summer of Discontent (57 page)

‘Here is your black resin. I said I would keep it for you.’

Bartholomew took it from her and examined it in the faint light of the dying fire. ‘I will think of you when I use it.’

‘Come with us,’ she said suddenly. ‘You have travelled in the past, and I know you want to do so again. I saw your face when
you tasted the herbs that were grown under the Mediterranean sun. You longed to go back there. And life as the consort of
a gypsy king can be very pleasant.’

‘I am sure it is. But my life is here, with my students and my teaching.’

She smiled sadly and touched his face lightly with her fingers. ‘Pity.’

Much later, when dawn came and the sun cast pale shadows across the dark countryside, they still lay together in the tall
grass, talking in low voices about their lives and their dreams. When the clan began to harness the horses and kick out the
embers of the fire, Bartholomew slipped away, but did not return to the priory. He watched them
pack the last of their belongings and heave Guido’s coffin on to a cart. The last he ever saw of Eulalia was as she took
the reins to lead her people out of the Fen glade and towards the road that led north.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael, hurrying to meet him as the physician walked through the Steeple Gate. It was still
early, but the sun was up and its rays were already warm, presaging another scorching day. ‘Cynric and I have been looking
for you everywhere.’

‘With the gypsies. Guido is dead, and he confessed to William’s murder. He said he did not kill the others, though, and I
think he was telling the truth.’

‘He was,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Our killer has been busy again, and last night he claimed yet another victim.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘Where is Cynric?’

Michael gave a hollow smile. ‘You need not worry about him; he is more than capable of looking after himself. The killer took
Symon this time.’

‘But he is locked in the Prior’s prison. Or, at least, he was.’

‘Keys and bolts do not deter our man. I am on my way there now, to ask Leycestre and his nephews whether they saw anything
useful.’

‘Our list of suspects is becoming smaller all the time,’ observed Bartholomew, falling into step with him. ‘Symon was near
the top, as far as I was concerned, but now we know the gypsies are innocent and so was he.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It is just a pity we know people are innocent only because they are dead, and not because we
deduced it for ourselves. We must resolve this soon, Matt, or people will begin to say that I am waiting for
everyone
in Ely to die, and will only know the culprit when he is the last man left alive.’

Cynric came running to meet them when they reached the cathedral; he smiled in relief when he saw Bartholomew was safe. ‘Ralph
is dead,’ he said conversationally. ‘De Lisle
found him at dawn, and is said to be rather peeved about it. The rumour is that Ralph had a fatal seizure when told he had
to mind Tysilia for the rest of the summer.’

As they walked towards the prison, which was located near the castle ruins, Bartholomew told them exactly what had happened
the night before, including John’s role in the affair. Michael shook his head in disbelief, and said that the priest had been
at prime that morning as usual, and had been more vocal in his prayers than ever. His congregation had been enormous, with
people coming from every corner of his parish to direct sullen looks and rebellious muttering towards the monks who held their
leader captive. Michael had tried to find him later, to ask whether he had seen Bartholomew, but the priest’s house was already
empty and his few belongings gone. As soon as the mass was over – and he had ensured his congregation were suitably aggrieved
by the priory’s arrest of Leycestre – he had apparently melted away into the Fens to bide his time until the uprising began
– if it ever did.

When Bartholomew mentioned that de Lisle had commissioned the gypsies’ services to pretend to be Blanche and set the fire
under his house, the monk gave a grin of amusement.

‘Ingenious, but flawed. It would certainly cast doubts on the validity of Blanche’s accusations, and make her appear a few
wits short of sane. But great ladies simply do not wander around at night setting fire to houses. People will not believe
what they “saw”.’

‘Barbour was sceptical immediately.’

‘I suppose it was worth a try, though,’ said Michael. ‘Poor de Lisle has had this charge hanging over his head for almost
two weeks now, and it is crippling him financially. He cannot leave Ely until it is resolved, and his debts are such that
he cannot afford to stay in one place for any length of time. He needs to visit people, so that they will feed his retinue
and relieve him of the expense.’

‘It was still an underhand thing to do to Blanche.’

Michael shrugged. ‘But at least he did not murder anyone or steal.’

‘He had no need to steal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘He now owns a sizeable share of the treasure he found in the fallen transept.
And how do we know he did not murder? Guido would have something to say about that.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Eulalia said
Ralph
paid Guido, not de Lisle. She believed it enough to condone Goran killing the man. De Lisle cannot be held responsible for
the actions of an over-zealous servant.’

The glorious day belied the uneasiness Bartholomew felt. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was a fathomless pale blue.
The sun bathed the countryside in yellow light, making the strips of barley and wheat a more brilliant gold than ever. It
lit the cathedral, too, and, as they walked towards the castle and looked back, tendrils of pale mist hugged the base of the
cathedral and gave the impression that it was sitting atop a bronze cloud.

The Prior’s prison was an unpleasantly dank building inside the monastery walls. Made of thick, heavy stones from the demolished
fortress, it comprised three small dark holes that passed as cells, linked by a narrow corridor. The ceilings were low and
barrel vaulted, and the only light was from a tiny slit that was no wider than the length of a finger.

‘I hope your priory does not keep people here for long,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael remove a key from his scrip to
open the outer door.

‘They are holding cells for people awaiting trials. No one is here for more than a few days.’

‘There is no proper guard?’ asked Cynric disapprovingly, as they entered a narrow, damp corridor. Water dripped down the walls,
which were coated with a layer of green-black slime, and the little points of lime that jutted from the roof attested to the
fact that leaks were continual.

‘A lay-brother comes twice a day with food and water,’ replied Michael. ‘This is a secure place, and there is no need for
constant vigilance.’

‘But there is,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘The killer came and murdered someone here.’

‘This has never happened before,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Prior Alan saw no need to do things any differently last night
than he had done before. How could he – or anyone else – have predicted that the killer would strike in a prison?’

‘How many people have access to these keys?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that the Prior’s security and care of his prisoners
left a lot to be desired. What happened if one of the captives became ill or needed attention? He supposed that the needs
of a prisoner, who was doubtless deemed guilty of the crime with which he was charged by virtue of being in the cells at all,
were not a high priority to the monastery, just as they were not to most other law-enforcing bodies.

Cynric answered. He was observant when it came to that sort of thing. ‘The keys to the prison are on hooks in the chapter
house – just like the keys to the back gate. Anyone inside the monastery is able to take them.’

‘Usually, it is not an issue, because most monks do not want to converse with criminals,’ said Michael defensively.

‘But last night was different,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A monk was captive here. What was to stop Symon’s friends from coming
to let him out?’

‘His personality,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘No one liked him enough to help him evade whatever punishment Alan decides is
just. He should have been safe here.’

Three stout wooden doors with heavy iron bars denoted the three cells. Each door had a grille set into it, which allowed anyone
in the corridor to watch the captives. Bartholomew recalled Cynric mentioning that he had placed Leycestre and his nephews
in one cell and Symon in another, so that they would not harm each other in their fury at being caught. He opened the grille
of the first cell, and peered through it to see a trio of bedraggled specimens huddled on the floor.

‘We made a mistake,’ Leycestre said in a low voice. ‘A
night in this foul place has given me time to reconsider, and I realise now that we were wrong. The landlords
are
oppressing the people, and it
is
unjust that some folk eat themselves fat while others starve, but now I see that attempting to steal from the priory was
not the best way to rectify matters.’

‘Tell Alan that,’ said Michael, unmoved by the rebel’s remorse.

‘I would, but I am not likely to run into him here, am I?’ There was a hint of anger in Leycestre’s voice. ‘Tell him for me.
Ask him to be lenient with my nephews. They are boys and were only following my orders.’

‘They are grown men, and perfectly able to see the difference between right and wrong,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I
will petition the Prior on your behalf, but only if you tell me who killed Symon.’

Leycestre sighed. ‘I was afraid you would ask me that, and you can be certain that I would tell you, since you have just agreed
to speak to Prior Alan for us. But the truth is that we saw and heard very little. These doors are thick, and the grille can
only be opened from outside.’

‘I suppose a little is better than nothing,’ said Michael, his voice conveying his disappointment.

‘In the middle of the night – I cannot tell you when exactly, but it was dark – I heard the grille on our door open. I thought
it might be Father John, coming to pretend to hear our confession, so that he could set us free, but then it closed again.
Whoever opened it did not speak to us.’

Michael looked at Bartholomew. ‘That means that the killer was looking for Symon specifically. He was not interested in the
others.’

‘I leapt to my feet and tried to peer through the bottom of the grille, where the wood is warped,’ Leycestre continued. ‘But
all I saw was a figure in a dark cloak. I could not tell whether it was a monk or layman; I could not even tell whether it
was a man or a woman.’

‘Tall?’ asked Michael. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’

‘I could not see. He had a candle, but it threw out shadows, and I could only make out a shape. He unlocked the door of Symon’s
cell and I heard prayers. Mass.’

‘We shouted to him,’ added the nephew called Adam Clymme from his place on the floor. ‘But he would not answer. He stayed
with Symon for a while, then left, locking all the doors behind him.’

‘Who found Symon?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael.

‘Julian the novice,’ replied Leycestre at once, trying hard to provide as much information as possible to ingratiate himself
with Michael. ‘He opened our grille, and shoved bread and three cups of water through it, and then went to do the same for
Symon.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he yell out in shock when he saw Symon dead?’

‘Not him,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I heard the grille being opened. Then, after a moment, he unlocked the cell door, which
I thought was an odd thing to do, given that Symon might have rushed him. It was not long before Julian came out again; he
was grinning and, as he passed our door, he said “Symon will not be reading any more books”. Then he left.’

Bartholomew gazed at Michael. ‘I wonder if the nocturnal visitor was merely some kindly monk who came to offer Symon words
of comfort, but the murderer is actually Julian. We have been suspicious of him from the start.’

Michael agreed. ‘And if Symon was sleeping, then it would have been easy for Julian to slip into his cell and kill him.’

‘Have you seen Symon’s body?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes. There was a grazed ear and cheek, and a small wound in his neck.’

‘Any signs of fighting, like we saw with Robert?’

‘None that I could see. It was as if Symon was taken completely by surprise.
If you examine the body now, will you be able to tell whether he was killed in the night by this mysterious visitor, or an
hour or two ago by Julian?’

Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. ‘Leycestre is vague about the time this night visitor came, and it might have been
only a short while before Julian. Had you called me immediately, I might have been able to tell by the warmth of Symon’s body,
but not now.’

‘I would have done, but you happened to be off enjoying yourself with your paramour,’ said Michael accusingly. He addressed
Leycestre again. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’

Leycestre swallowed hard. ‘Only one thing. I apologise for knocking you into the crates on Wednesday night at the Quay.’

‘I guessed that was you,’ Michael said, although Bartholomew knew perfectly well that he had not. ‘I suppose you were discussing
which house you wanted to burgle?’

Leycestre licked dry lips, and the glance he exchanged with his nephews indicated that Michael had put his finger on the reason
for their violent reaction to the interruption that night. ‘But we did you no harm. We used no weapons, even though we all
had daggers in our belts.’

‘Most thoughtful of you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But Matt said you had been drinking heavily, and were on the verge of a brawl
with the gypsies that night. Were you sober enough to break into houses?’

‘The burglaries were becoming more difficult,’ said Clymme ruefully. ‘People were on their guard, you see, and each new house
we robbed was harder than the last. We drank because we needed the courage ale brings. Eventually, we even had to pretend
that Agnes Fitzpayne was also burgled, so that no one would think to blame us.’ He unravelled himself from the floor and walked
towards the door. His loutish face was streaked and dirty, and arrogance had been replaced by a pathetic misery. ‘Will you
chase the rats from the last cell before you go?’ he pleaded. ‘They kept me awake all night with their scratching and clawing.’