A Summer of Discontent (44 page)

‘Did it ever occur to you that your mother might have been a lady like Blanche?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew held his breath.
Educating Tysilia about her parentage was not something for discussing at such a time or in such a place, and he was surprised
that Michael was prepared to broach such a delicate subject.

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia carelessly. ‘But she must have been a real beauty to produce me, so that takes Blanche out of the
running.
She
looks like a pig.’

‘De Lisle told me that Blanche was extremely pretty when she was young,’ pressed Michael.

‘But he has sworn one of those vows of celery, so he is no judge,’ said Tysilia.

For the first time, it occurred to Bartholomew that in later life Tysilia might come to resemble the woman she
claimed to find so ugly. Tysilia would be a lot bigger than the squat, buxom Blanche, and the combination would not be an
attractive one. He had always considered Tysilia’s claims of beauty rather exaggerated in any case. He felt a surge of compassion
for the bleak future she faced, when her looks would no longer guarantee her the lovers she craved.

‘Anyway,’ Tysilia went on, ‘there is a very good reason why Blanche cannot have mothered me. She is not William’s mother,
so she cannot be mine.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in exasperation. Bartholomew heard him clear his throat, then adopt a more reasonable tone. ‘Tell
us about William. How did you meet? Was he ever your lover?’

Tysilia sighed heavily. ‘Of course not! I am not a pervert, you know.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘You should tell Michael
that decent women do not take their siblings to bed.’

‘I am sure he needs no tuition from me about suitable bed-mates,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you take Blanche’s cup?’

‘I took it because William promised to spirit me away from this place,’ said Tysilia. ‘I happen to know that staying in clean
taverns and hiring horses is expensive. I have travelled a lot while attending the University of Life.’

‘Did you take the book, too?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the fact that most of the time she was locked up somewhere fairly
remote.

‘No. I only removed things that would be easy to sell.’

‘A chalice would not have been easy,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Any monk or friar would take it,’ said Tysilia carelessly, and Bartholomew could see the white gleam of her vacant grin,
even in the darkness. ‘They spend all their lives in churches, and so we could have sold a chalice to any of them.’

‘Not many would buy one that they thought was stolen,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Rubbish,’ said Tysilia and Michael at the same time. Bartholomew saw Tysilia interpret this as a sign that they were made
for each other, and she moved closer to him again. Michael stepped around Bartholomew, and the physician found himself in
the middle of an unpleasant grappling contest until he pushed them both firmly away.

‘Do you think one of Blanche’s retinue might have owned this book?’ he asked tiredly. It was very late, and he was growing
weary of prising information from Tysilia. He began to acknowledge that Michael was right, and that she knew nothing worth
telling after all.

‘None of them can read,’ said Tysilia. ‘A book is no good if you cannot read it, unless it has a lot of pictures. Those are
the ones I like.’

‘Tell us about William,’ said Bartholomew, electing not to mention that the book they had found was full of beautiful illustrations.
That she seemed not to know was probably proof that she was not the person who had stolen it. He sensed Michael was as exasperated
with the interview as he was, and decided it was time to draw it to a close. ‘You said you knew a lot about him earlier. You
were afraid that he might be in danger. Are you still afraid?’

‘I had forgotten about that,’ said Tysilia, glancing around her in agitation. ‘You should not have reminded me. Now I feel
frightened, and Michael will have to put his arms around me.’

‘Michael will not,’ said the monk firmly. ‘Why did you think William was in danger?’

‘Glovere was dead,’ replied Tysilia. ‘And William said that he and I would be the killer’s next victims.’

‘Why did he say that?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling that they were finally getting somewhere.

‘Because I was speaking too loudly,’ said Tysilia sulkily. ‘He said we would be next because I was shouting, and that people
would see us together when we met in the cemetery.’

Michael made an impatient sound. ‘He did not mean that
literally. It sounds as though he was just trying to make you understand the need for discretion.’

‘Glovere died because he had enemies,’ Tysilia went on, oblivious to Michael’s frustration. ‘When I was still with Blanche,
he told me that someone might try to kill him. He did not appear to take it seriously. But it seems he should have done.’

‘Who was going to kill him?’ demanded Michael immediately.

‘I do not know. Blanche said he was talking about the Bishop, but dear, sweet Uncle would harm no one. And then later, when
I met William again, he told me there were dangerous people in Ely. He did not say who, though, before you ask.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. When he spoke again, his voice was more gentle; apparently he had decided he would learn more from
her with kindness. ‘We must catch the killer before more lives are lost, Tysilia. Can you think of anything – anything at
all – that might help us? Did William give you any clues about the identity of the killer?’

‘No,’ said Tysilia. ‘He talked about the places we would see together when we left Ely, but he said we would always come back
here.’

‘Did he indeed?’ said Michael, surprised. ‘I had assumed that his removal of some of the priory’s property would have eliminated
the notion of a triumphant return. Where did he say you might go?’

‘Upriver,’ said Tysilia. ‘But only for a short time. He was going to be Prior when Alan died, then Bishop when my uncle dies.’

‘How long have you known William?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tysilia regarded him uncertainly. ‘He is my brother. So I have known him since I was born, although I only met him a few days
ago. But why are you asking all these questions when Michael and I could be doing something much more fun?’

‘Did you notice any change in William’s behaviour as time
went on?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to become sidetracked. ‘Has he seemed different to you? Nervous or uneasy?’

‘Of course,’ said Tysilia. ‘There is a killer on the loose. Who in his right mind would not be nervous or uneasy? That is
why I am nervous and uneasy. I am in my right mind, you see.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You have been very helpful.’

‘I know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘Everything I say is interesting and useful. But you owe me something for all my time.
What do you say to a little—’

‘Matt will see you safely home,’ said Michael briskly, stepping away from her exploring hands once again. ‘I am too tired
for anything you have in mind.’

‘But that is not fair!’ cried Tysilia in abject disappointment. Her voice was loud, and Bartholomew heard a lull in the chatter
from the Outer Hostry above. ‘I have helped you, and now you must give me what I want.’

‘It is
not
fair,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I do not want to wander the town in the dark, either. I want to go to bed.’

‘But I do not want
you
in my bed,’ pouted Tysilia, mistaking his words for an offer. ‘I want Brother Michael.’

‘I am not available,’ proclaimed Michael grandly. ‘Go home, Tysilia, and take a cold bath.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ grumbled Michael when Bartholomew returned from seeing Tysilia safely back through the Bishop’s
window a little later. The monk was waiting by the Steeple Gate so that some officious doorkeeper would not lock the physician
out. He need not have worried: the lay-brother who guarded the door was sleeping soundly in his small chamber, and Michael
was surprised his snores could not be heard by the Prior in his quarters. He recalled that Welles claimed to have slipped
past him around the time that Thomas was murdered. ‘We should not have bothered to disturb our rest for that.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So why did you tell her she had been helpful? She was not.’

‘Tactics,’ replied Michael, vaguely. ‘If she is the accomplice of an evil killer, then he will be worried by my claim that
she has assisted us. It may make him sufficiently anxious to do something rash, and may serve to flush him out.’

‘Or it may tell the killer that we know more than we do and put our lives in danger. I am not sure that was a wise thing to
do.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael carelessly, as he closed the gate. ‘But it is irrelevant anyway: she knows nothing of interest
and my cleverness was wasted.’

‘Do you think William is the killer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And that he is watching the city from a safe distance before selecting
his next victim?’

‘I have no idea what William is or what his motives were in leaving. How Tysilia could believe that he is her brother is wholly
beyond my understanding.’

‘She believes what she wishes were true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor Blanche. It sounds as if she tried hard to communicate with
Tysilia, but Tysilia was too stupid to understand what she was being told.’

‘Well, we will find out more tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘We shall go upriver and see whether we can find this spot where the
townsmen were murdered. Perhaps we will learn something new then.’

‘I hope so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because if not, we have reached a dead end, and I do not know which way to
turn next.’

Michael sighed. ‘The annoying thing is that I do not feel like sleeping any more. That Tysilia has unnerved me. I am wide
awake, and my mind is teeming with questions.’

‘You will fall asleep once you lie down,’ said Bartholomew, who was suffering from no such complaint and was extremely drowsy.

‘I will not,’ declared Michael with grim determination. ‘I shall lie awake for hours. Then I shall disturb Northburgh
and Stretton, who share my bedchamber. I feel like walking, to tire myself.’

‘What, now?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around unenthusiastically at the darkened buildings. ‘It is pitch black, and you said
yourself that the killer could well be at large in the priory grounds. Walking alone in the dark is not a sensible thing to
do.’

‘I was not thinking of going alone,’ said Michael. ‘I thought you would come with me. Besides, it is a hot and sticky night.
You need to cool down before you head for your own bed.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘You are mad, Brother. But very well. Where do you want to go? Shall we risk breaking our necks on the
graves in the cemetery, or shall we settle for a stumble among the roots of the vineyard?’

‘We can keep to the paths,’ said Michael testily. He gazed up at the sky. The clouds had parted, revealing a huge patch of
sugar-spangled velvet. The stars seemed more bright than usual in the moonless sky, gleaming and flickering in their thousands.
A white smear showed the presence of a belt of stars too small to be seen with the naked eye, although the ancient philosophers
assured their readers that they were there.

Since they had met Tysilia, a light breeze had sprung up, rendering the night far more pleasant, despite Michael’s grumbles
regarding the heat. It fanned their faces, blowing cool air from the east. In it was the faint tang of salt, reminding Bartholomew
that a vast boggy sea lay only a few miles away. The breeze carried other scents, too, which were less pleasant: the sulphurous
odour of the rotting vegetation and stagnant water that were the cause of so many summer fevers, and the stench of the city
itself. Bartholomew fell into step with Michael, allowing the monk to lead them in a wide circle around the north wall of
the cathedral and then towards the almonry.

Bartholomew thought about Robert, who had died while looking for William. The almoner now lay next to Thomas
in the cathedral’s Lady Chapel, a great white whale of a corpse next to one that was darker and more swarthy in death than
it had been in life. Both were due to be buried the following day, and the pomp and ceremony that was planned reflected the
priory’s indignation that two of their number had been mercilessly slain, rather than genuine grief. Only Henry had shown
any emotion other than outrage.

The almonry was a two-storeyed building that overlooked Steeple Row, and that had contained Robert’s lodgings as well as a
dispensary for alms. Next to it was the sacristy, where the sacristan lived, along with all the sacred vessels and vestments
that belonged to the cathedral and the monastery. Then there was a stretch of wall, and then the Bone House, where they had
examined Glovere.

Bartholomew gazed at the Bone House with unease, thinking it a sinister place. He had encountered charnel houses aplenty,
but these tended to be repositories for bones that were so ancient that they were all but unrecognisable. The Bone House contained
rows of grinning skulls, many of them still boasting fragments of hair and patches of dried skin. One had even worn a hat
– slipped at a crazy angle across one eye, but a cap, nevertheless.

‘There is a light in the Bone House,’ he said, startled out of his grim reverie. ‘Did you see it?’

‘No,’ said Michael, peering through the darkness. ‘You must have imagined it. No one is likely to be in the Bone House in
the middle of the night.’

‘There it is again!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. There was a flicker, just under the shutter of the upper window. ‘You must have
seen it!’

Michael frowned. ‘No one should be in there. Only a madman would want to be in the company of all those dead folk in the dark.’

‘Perhaps a madman, like our killer,’ said Bartholomew, gripping Michael’s arm, as a way to solve the murders suddenly opened
up to him. ‘We should investigate this.’

‘We should find Cynric and Meadowman,’ said Michael, holding back. ‘This killer is a dangerous man.’

‘You are not afraid, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s reluctance to investigate. ‘He is only one man,
Brother; we can tackle him between us.’