A Summer of Discontent (40 page)

‘I did not kill him, either,’ said Welles, worried that Julian’s denial might result in the accusation passing to him. ‘I
did not stay in the hospital – I collected a basket and then left through the other door to buy fruit in the marketplace.’

‘That should be easy to check,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We can ask the lay-brother on gate duty when he saw him.’

Welles lost some colour from his face and swallowed nervously. ‘But he was not there. I suppose he was either dozing or had
gone to the latrines. I let myself out.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, sounding interested. ‘How convenient. What about when you came back?’

‘The same,’ replied Welles, a curious mixture of defiant and fearful. ‘He will deny leaving his post, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael expressionlessly. He glanced around, and his eyes lit on another monk in the milling throng awaiting
dinner. The novices were temporarily forgotten. ‘Brother Symon! Just the man I wanted to see.’

‘It is too late to use the library today,’ said Symon, edging away from Michael in alarm. ‘Apply in writing and I shall see
what I can do.’

‘It is not the library I want.’ One powerful arm shot out to prevent the librarian’s escape. ‘It is you. Am I mistaken, or
did I spot you entering the infirmary after breakfast this morning?’

‘You just said that was Julian and Welles,’ said Bukton, confused.

‘I saw several people,’ said Michael meaningfully. ‘One of whom was the Brother Librarian.’ He waited expectantly for Symon’s
answer.

Symon blustered and coughed for a moment as he collected his thoughts. ‘I did cut through the infirmary hall,’ he admitted.
‘But I did not see any killers. I saw Henry dozing and Thomas fast asleep on his sickbed, but nothing else.’

‘How do you know Thomas was fast asleep?’ pounced Michael. ‘How do you know he was not dead?’

Symon blustered even more. ‘I suppose he may have been. The old men were watching me, so I did not go and prod him.’ His reply
made it sound as though he might have done if no one had been looking.

‘Why did you go into the infirmary at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You have been haunting it like a ghost ever since Thomas was
taken ill, although you never set foot in it normally.’

‘I was concerned for the welfare of my sub-prior,’ replied Symon, looking pleased with himself for thinking up this reply.
‘Is that all? I have other business to attend …’

‘Just a moment,’ snapped Michael, tightening his grip on the slippery librarian’s arm. ‘I have not finished with you yet.
I want your expertise.’

‘My what?’ asked Symon nervously.

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael grimly. ‘Bukton – run to the Prior’s House and ask him for the contents of the granary sack I discovered
yesterday. He will know what I mean.’

Bukton did not take long. He handed the bag to Michael, who withdrew the book of hours from its parchment wrappings. ‘I found
this recently. Do you recognise it?’

Symon regarded the tome suspiciously, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is this a trick? Have you removed it from my shelves, and
are testing to see whether I am able to identify it?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew scornfully. ‘We merely want to know whether you have seen it before.’

‘If I say yes, will you give it to me for my collection?’ asked Symon craftily.

‘No, I will not,’ said Michael irritably. ‘And I want you to tell the truth, not some lie that you think will earn you a gift.
Do you recognise it?’ He gave a hearty sigh when Symon glanced down and then away. ‘You will not be able to give me your considered
opinion if you do not inspect it closely, man! Take it and leaf through it.’

Symon opened the book, and even he could see that here was a script of considerable value. He turned the pages carefully,
almost reverently, but then handed it back to Michael with clear reluctance. ‘I am afraid I have never seen it before.’

‘What about this chalice?’ asked Michael, producing the fine cup that had also been hidden in the granary.

Symon shook his head a second time, although he seemed considerably more interested in the silver than he had been in the
book. ‘No, but it is very fine and should be in the Prior’s coffers.’ He took it from Michael, then held it and the book up
to show the monks who stood in a curious circle around him. ‘Do any of you know these?’

There was a chorus of denials and several shaken heads, although Julian said nothing. His silence did not go unobserved. Michael
immediately homed in on him.

‘Which of these is familiar to you?’ he demanded.

Julian was startled to find himself suddenly the centre of attention again. ‘Neither,’ he said, nervously raising one hand
to scratch at the smattering of spots around his mouth.

‘Do not lie,’ ordered Michael coldly. ‘It is clear to me that you have seen one or more of these items before, and I want
to know which one and where.’

‘It cannot be clear to you,’ blustered Julian. He had scratched one pimple enough to make it bleed. ‘I have said nothing to
give you that impression.’

‘It is more a case of what you have
not
said,’ replied Michael, showing off a little. ‘You alone, of all these men, did not immediately claim ignorance of these
items. You said nothing, and I could tell from your eyes that you know something. And now you are picking and scratching at
yourself like a dog with fleas, which is a sure sign of an uneasy conscience. So, unless you want to find yourself on latrine
duty for the next month, you had better be honest.’

‘I know nothing,’ said Julian in a small voice, close to tears. His continuing denials convinced no one, and here and there
the monks began to murmur among themselves.
Bartholomew decided that the best way to make Julian speak was to appeal to their sense of self-preservation.

‘There is a murderer in this city, who has already killed five men,’ he said, addressing them. ‘It is possible that William
was so afraid that he took all his possessions and fled, while poor Robert was murdered in broad daylight in the grounds of
your own priory. And the killer did not even take pity on Thomas, as he lay afflicted with a seizure that rendered him helpless.
Is this the kind of man you want in your home?’

Heads were shaken fervently and there was a growing mumble of unease: Bartholomew’s speech had visibly upset some of them.
They looked around, as though they imagined that a killer might stalk up and slip his knife into their necks as they stood
with their friends outside the refectory. Michael took up the argument.

‘Then you will agree with us that it is imperative Julian tells us the truth, and reveals whatever secret he has learned that
might have a bearing on this case?’

‘Brother Michael is right,’ said Bukton fervently, appealing to his friend. ‘I do not want my neck cut as I sleep just because
you are a selfish lout who cannot distinguish between truth and lies. Tell Michael what he wants to know.’

‘Yes, or you will have me to deal with,’ added Symon, although whether from genuine concern or merely for show, Bartholomew
could not tell.

‘I do not know what Brother Michael wants me to say,’ said Julian, defiant to the last.

‘Then tell him what you
think
he wants you to say,’ growled Symon, taking a couple of steps towards the uneasy novice. Julian tried to back away, but Welles
and Bukton had closed in behind him, and he found himself surrounded. He swallowed hard and turned to face Michael.

‘Very well, but it will not help you.’

‘I will be the judge of that,’ said Michael pompously.

‘I have seen that book before,’ admitted Julian miserably.

‘Where?’ demanded Michael, when Julian faltered into silence again. ‘Did Thomas or William own it? Did you see one of them
reading it, or one passing it to the other?’

‘No. I saw it in Robert’s cell the day before he died.’

Bartholomew did not feel like devouring another monstrous meal, although Michael had no objection. They ate quickly, then
left to go in search of Henry. Heat radiated from the yellow-grey stones of the priory buildings. Sparrows flapped and fluttered
in the dust of the path, while a cat panted in the shade, too lethargic even to chase easy targets.

As they walked, the bell chimed to announce the end of the midday meal. Bartholomew glanced behind him to see the monks emerging
from the refectory – more slowly than they had entered, and with considerably less urgency. Some had their heads bent, as
though in contemplation, and all had their hands tucked inside their wide sleeves. Bartholomew noted that Michael had also
adopted the priory style of walking: in Cambridge, the monk’s hands were either guarding his scrip from pickpockets, or were
ready to grab some student who was misbehaving. Julian walked with them, adopting a sullen slouch to register that he resented
the fact that Michael had ordered him to accompany them, when it was customary for the brethren to take a period of rest in
the afternoons.

‘This mystery is becoming more opaque than ever,’ Michael grumbled, careful to keep his voice low so that Julian would not
hear what he was saying. ‘Every time I think I have uncovered a clue that will lead me to new avenues of investigation, I
learn something that confuses me even more.’

‘You mean like the book of hours being in Robert’s possession?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We saw Thomas receive a parcel that looked
very much like the one containing the tome, but we cannot even be sure that parcel and book are one and the same.’

‘And the packet was most definitely part of the hoard
belonging to William,’ said Michael. ‘We know this because Alan said the gold was clipped in a distinctive way, and he is
sure it is the same money given to William for his expenditure as hosteller.’

‘But just because the book was found with William’s gold does not mean to say that William put them together. Someone may
have stolen the coins from him, along with the book from Robert, and hidden them in the barn.’

‘And that someone may well have been Thomas,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! Why did he have to choose now to have his seizure?
Had he remained healthy for a few more moments, we might have prised enough information from him to catch this killer – and
Thomas himself would still be alive.’

‘I am not sure Thomas put that sack in the granary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The ladder broke when I climbed it, and I am a good
deal lighter than Thomas.’

‘Perhaps it was Thomas’s weight that rendered the rungs weak in the first place,’ suggested Michael.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I doubt a man of Thomas’s girth could have hauled himself up those steps. I am not sure his arms would
have been strong enough.’

‘You would probably say the same about me,’ said Michael, pushing back a black sleeve to reveal a meaty white arm, which he
flexed proudly. ‘But my strength has saved your life on numerous occasions.’

‘But you do more than stroll between cathedral and refectory all day,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You wrestle with students,
and you ride. Thomas did nothing more strenuous than raise a spoon to his lips.’

Michael gave him an reproachful glance. ‘That is unfair. He raised goblets, too. But, although we have a good deal of confusing
information about the book, we know nothing about the chalice. England is a large country, and there are churches all across
it that own attractive silver, so I suppose there is no reason for us to have heard if it was stolen from some distant place,
like Peterborough or Huntingdon.’

‘Is there any particular reason why you mention Huntingdon, Brother?’

Michael looked sharply at him. ‘None. Why?’

‘Because Blanche is from Huntingdon.’

‘I was selecting places at random,’ Michael said dismissively. ‘However, you may have a point, and we must make sure we ask
someone from her household whether they recognise it. A positive identification in that direction would give us something
to work on.’

‘But, as you have already pointed out, we do not need any more disjointed clues,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That has been our problem
all along: we have a mass of small facts and scraps of information, but we are unable to make any sense out of them. The last
thing we need is more.’

When they reached the infirmary, Bartholomew thought Henry did not look well. His face was pale, and his eyes were watery.
He appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion, and Bartholomew decided he had better agree to sit with Roger that night, or
Thomas might not be the only one to have a seizure.

‘You should rest,’ said Michael gently, when he saw the state the kindly physician was in.

‘I feel responsible for what happened to Thomas,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘If I had been more vigilant, then he would be
with us now.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘As I told you earlier, if you had been more vigilant, you might well be lying next
to Thomas in a coffin. The murderer killed him because it was obvious that he was about to reveal information that would help
us.’

‘You did all you could,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Henry was not much comforted by Michael’s words. ‘You made Thomas’s last
moments comfortable, and his death was probably quick and painless.’

‘It is the “probably” that worries me, Matthew,’ said Henry miserably. ‘I have lost patients before, of course, but I have
never had one murdered while I slept.’

‘Just be thankful that you were
not
awake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no one else in the priory with your expertise. What would happen to Roger and the other
elderly men if the killer had taken you, too?’

‘More to the point, what would have happened to the rest of us?’ added Julian. ‘You bleed us quickly and painlessly. If you
were dead, then we would have to go to Barbour of the Lamb, and he makes a terrible mess.’

Julian’s brazen self-interest brought a smile to Henry’s face. ‘You are a wicked boy,’ he said mildly. ‘I despair of ever
filling you with compassion.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘Since you will not rest, then you can answer my questions. Alan said you occasionally use
the library. Do you recognise this book?’